


So Soars the Young Falcon

by Salamon2



Series: Rise and Fall of the Baratheons [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Butterfly Effect, Chaos Theory, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, House Arryn, House Baratheon, House Dayne, House Lannister, House Martell, House Stark, House Targaryeon, House Tully, M/M, Robert's Rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-01-21 09:32:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 59
Words: 109,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1546010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamon2/pseuds/Salamon2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Denys Arryn did not die at the Battle of the Bells. He instead killed Jon Connington, preventing him from ordering the retreat, leading to the decimation of the Royal Army of King’s Landing with the swarming of the rebel reinforcements upon the walled town of Stoney Sept.</p><p>Everything changes from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Denys

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story idea based off of a general time line-based story concept that was spinning around in my head for a while. It also is more based out of the AH.com time line formula rather than my more traditional way of writing, like the other two stories I have posted here. I've wanted to do a point of divergence that diverges during Robert's Rebellion for a while now so I could have fun with what comes afterwards in the peace. Well, last night I felt inspired to at least come up with the basic idea for such a story.
> 
> I wanted to avoid most of the common point of divergences that revolve around Robert's Rebellion (Trident point of divergences, King's Landing point of divergences, and Tower of Joy point of divergences being the three favorites). Instead, I looked at the battle before the Trident and found something that I think is worthy of a point of divergence that no one has yet tapped (to my knowledge). This story is a much more traditional time line divergence as there's no deus ex machina-like alien space bat intervention. It's just one person making a different choice and all the after effects that go from there. And so I present a second story that I'll be working on.
> 
> This story WILL NOT be updated as frequently as my other work (that takes first priority, and I have enough on my plate with other projects and real life, which reminds me I have a good number of chapters to update on this site for my other story), though I will update it when I can or when inspiration strikes me. Eventually this story will pick up when my other story winds down (if it ever does at the rate I'm going with developing that story's planned plot). So having said all that, I give you, ladies and gentlemen:

**DENYS**  
  
It would be the fight that would define the rest of his life e’en before it had begun he knew it would. He charged forward, his armor clunking against the stone laid into the earth of the marketplace. Steel met steel as Denys engaged Aerys’ new Hand in single combat. During the fight, Denys managed to knock Connington's helmet off, only further enraging the red-haired youth. Around the fountain depicting House Tully’s sigil, they fought, each attempting to use the fountain to their benefit to jump up for a higher stance, or to slip behind the statue itself, but it was Denys who slipped upon the wet stone of the fountain, and fell onto his back on the ledge of the fountain, his sword slipping from his grasp and plopping straight into the water. In that instant Denys saw the recognition in Connington’s eyes, all he need do was slip his sword ‘neath Denys’ helmet and so would end the life of a traitor.  
  
 _So this is how it is to end?_ Knowing his life’s end was near, Denys chose in that instant rather than resigning himself to it, to instead challenge it. _No, not this day!_  
  
He took his free hand in the fountain, cupped it and through the water straight into the unguarded eyes of Jon Connington as he drew back to swing his sword. The sudden contact with which the water met the red-haired man’s eyes caused him to flinch, lose his balance, and fall to his knees, allowing Denys enough time to reach back into the fountain, grab his fallen sword and knock Connington’s out of his grasp before he fully recovered from wiping his eyes. Denys was about to ask the man to yield as his prisoner, but Connington instead of giving up moved to reach for some weapon at his belt. Instinctively, Denys stabbed Connington down the opening at the neck of Connington’s armor, slipping the sword ‘neath the chain mail. Denys saw shock fill the eyes of Jon Connington as he pulled the blood stained sword from him after having left his mark. That face was the last one the griffin made as he fell over dead on his side. Denys howe’er could not relish his victory o’er Connington’s death as he took stock of the market around him.  
  
The Stony Sept was filled with soldiers—Royal Army, Starks, Tullys, and Baratheons as well as Arryns. Men fought through the streets, on top of roofs, and in every square inch of this godforsaken walled town.  
  
When the day was through, the Royal Army of King’s Landing was no more. The Stoney Sept was bathed in blood, and a more than decisive victory for Robert Baratheon had been made to make up for the defeat at Ashford. The rebel forces had suffered some casualties, though not as severe as the Royal Army—the minuscule number of stragglers of which were taken as hostages to be sent to Riverrun.  
  
Denys met with Lords Stark and Arryn when the fighting was over. Robert was still recovering from his wounds that had caused him to take refuge in this walled death-trap in the first place. Hoster Tully was also recovering from wounds he had received. Upon seeing his state the two Lords Paramount reacted as though the Stranger himself had come to visit them.  
  
“Gods, Denys,” commented Lord Stark, Ned as he’d known him growing up in the Vale. When his scheming father had sent Denys to the Eyrie to ingratiate himself into Lord Arryn’s good opinion, Denys had befriended the younger Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon. They had enjoyed games of childish foolishness and learned all at once how to fight. Denys was the elder by a good half a decade, but his father had been so poor, he had been in the beginning upon the same level as Ned and Robert—though he had quickly made up for lost time with diligent practice.  
  
“What did you do, cousin?” asked Lord Arryn, his suspicious eyes narrowing and examining him up and down.  
  
“I slew Connington,” announced Denys rather quietly. To his ears he almost sounded rather serene—when inside he felt far from it.  
  
“With the Army of King’s Landing defeated beyond rallying, and the Hand of the King dead—” began Lord Arryn  
  
“That leaves nothing between us and King’s Landing. Take the city and we might just be able to end the war,” finished Lord Stark.  
  
It was a slim chance, what with no word of Prince Rhaegar’s location still, but if they hurried before word of the slaughtering that the Stoney Sept had become well-known enough to give the city enough time to fully prepare for a siege, they might just be able to catch it off guard and mayhaps, with the luck of the Seven, take it. They would have to march and march quickly upon the city—for that was all they could do, now.


	2. Aerys

**AERYS**  
  
News of the routing of the rebel Robert’s forces would soon arrive, of that Aerys was sure. The overambitious Stag had been defeated at Ashford by Tarly and fled like the scared fawn he was to the Stoney Sept. Even a young griffin ought not to have much trouble with a wounded deer—as Varys’ spies had reported was the reason Robert had taken refuge in that worthless town of little name.  
  
Aerys had made the griffin Hand of the King simply so he could go and take out the up jumped fawn—mayhaps if he were lucky, his son’s friend and long-time suggestion would also get himself tragically killed, and he would have less to worry about on his son’s end. His foolish son, who’d stolen the wolf bitch and caused this entire mess to begin with—though Aerys could not say it wasn’t an entertaining mess, watching the overly proud Northern dogs come to heel beneath the green flames and iron leash had been entertaining to say the least, though no one else in the throne room had found it as amusing as he. Given the chance they’d all betray him… in a heartbeat. So he gave little shows to remind them what happens to traitors in Westeros. The youngest Kingsguard, the little lion cub, had especially squirmed—he would be next to be burned alive if his father so much as thought of treason.  
  
Just then word of a messenger from the Riverlands reached Aerys, breaking him from his reverie. He bade for his guards to let the man enter the throne room, and Aerys adjusted himself on the chair, feeling a slight knick from one of the swords that made the chair, but Aerys cared not. For what was a little blood for sitting the most powerful throne of all of Westeros?  
  
The messenger was bloodied, tired, and looked as though he had half ran in his armor all the way here from the Stoney Sept. He had the crest of one of the pitiful Houses on Massey’s Hook—not even worth mentioning they were that low.  
  
“So I’ve waited for a fortnight to hear news, and my Hand sends me a Hook’s son to tell me of the battle?” asked Aerys.  
  
“w—We…”  
  
“Yes, yes, get on with it.”  
  
“We lost… your grace.”  
  
A gasp went round the courtroom, followed by a wave of whispers. That word, that word that he had ne’er expected to hear, “Lost?”  
  
“Aye… badly.”  
  
“The Royal Army?”  
  
“Gone. It was a massacre. Only myself and a handful of other stragglers managed to escape it. The rebel army was on our heels, they’re likely at most three days away, your grace.”  
  
Panic swept through the throne room, some of the nobles seeking to escape through any exit possible. Aerys nodded his head to his guards and they all blocked the exits. He’d have no one flee the capital like scared little birds before a storm of swords descended upon them.  
  
“So instead of doing your duty and killing that fawn, you ran? Seize the traitor!” snapped Aerys, and he smiled with delicious delight as the young man’s eyes went wide with horror as he was taken by what guards who were not posted at the exits.  
  
After the death of the two mutts, none dared disobey him.  
  
“Bring me Lord Rossart. I have use for him and his guild,” called out Aerys.  
  
Four vials should do the trick. Pity there weren’t more time, but one for this traitor and then three to awaken the true fighting force of the Targaryeon dynasty.  
  
Just then the Dornish whore that called herself his gooddaughter, cradling his young infant grandson, came before the throne—the entire room growing silent as she did. She stood like her family’s house words suggested as she spoke. Her voice howe’er betrayed the true weakness hidden just underneath her Dornish skin.  
  
“Your grace, I beg of you, spare this man his life. He’s done nothing but try to help us—”  
  
“Did I ask you to speak? No! Out of consideration for my grandson, I’ll let what you’ve said pass. But were he not still at your teat, I’d have you join this traitor—now return to your place,” hissed Aerys.  
  
Elia, clutching her infant son even closer to her bosom than before, causing the infant to mew with displeasure, simply stood there, challenging him. He would not be shown up by a Dornish slut!  
  
It was easy enough to punish her, “Guards, take my grandson to a wet nurse.”  
  
The implication was enough, young Aegon was ripped from the slut’s arms and as she protested and screamed, Aerys smiled—that would show the slut.  
  
He almost giggled as he commanded, “Now Elia, _bow_ to me. Or you’ll never see young Rhaenys as well.”  
  
Elia glared daggers at Aerys, but slowly and with some difficulty, she complied to his demands. He then had whatever guards were left escort her to her chambers, where she would be locked up.  
  
Yes… no one dared question him after the death of the two mutts and not feel his wrath—even the sun bowed to him.


	3. Jon Arryn

**JON**

 

They were a day’s and a half ride from King’s Landing when a rider had managed to reach them having ridden after them from the Stoney Sept. The news had come from the Vale and it bode ill for young Denys—young, his boy cousin had long since grown into a man and made a family of his own. A family that now due to misfortune was dead.

 

“How?” was all the Denys asked of him at first. They were riding side by side, slightly separated from the army marching at their side. Their forces following the Blackwater east towards where it flowed into the bay with which is shared its name that the capital sat at the junction of.

 

Jon sighed before answering, knowing that it seemed such a senseless way to die, “The pox.”

 

Denys for what it was worth held himself together, though Jon could see beneath his stone face was a well of emotions just waiting to burst forth and o’er take his young cousin.

 

“Annalys and Jasper both?” asked Denys with an uncertainty Jon had not seen since the man had first arrived at the Eyrie all those years ago. He asked as though Jon might have been mistaken when saying that all of his family was dead.

 

“Aye, both,” completed

 

“The Seven bless them. We’d barely had our time together with this senseless war.”

 

“Aye, but mayhaps this senseless war saved your life. You could have been home in the Vale and died of the pox with them.”

 

“T’would have be more of a blessing to have been there than here.”

 

Jon recalled his niece well. He had watched her grow up and visited her and her many sisters at Ironoaks many a time. She had always been a cheerful girl, quick to smile—though perhaps a bit vain—she would not want Denys to be so down on himself. “Denys, I know that Annalys would not care for you to wish—”

 

“Say that not, cuz. I have o’er heard such sentiments until they’ve grown trite in my ears,” interrupted Denys.

 

“They may be trite, but it does not stop them from being any less true. Annalys was a pleasant happy girl all her life—she would have liked for you to have mourned her of course, but to think such thoughts as it would be better to be dead than here is a madness that she would not have tolerated, of that I know I can be sure.”

 

Denys was silent for a few moments before asking, “Then what am I supposed to do? Tell me, for I fear I know not.”

 

“Give up not. Fight this war to make such a world as they should have lived in.”

 

“And what is the point if they live in them not?”

 

“Do you not have goodsisters who deserve just as much to live a life of peace?”

 

“Aye, though I barely know them.”

 

“That is what the peace is for—to come to know them. Should we fail in our endeavors all our heads and those of our families will be upon spikes. There is no other option but to win it for them.”

 

“And we must do this, all of it, all for the want of one woman. A woman who set a million men to march,” said Denys ruefully.

 

“Wars have been fought for more trivial things, like a hollow crown. At least a woman can return the love you honor her with.”

 

“That she can,” admitted Denys, and they continued their ride on silently.

 

When they made their camp for the night, Jon saw Robert had joined them this night to speak of strategy.

 

“The last raven from Storm’s End said they were still under siege,” blustered

 

“A raven which arrived more than a few moons and several marches ago, Robert. We know not when King’s Landing heard of the Royal Army’s defeat. It could be that with news of our victory at the Stoney Sept, Aerys could have sent word to Tyrell and his host to come north and take us by surprise shortly after beginning our siege,” countered Ned wisely, Jon felt proud of his wolf pup turned man—he’d always had a mind for tactics growing up—not a brilliant mind, but quite a formidable one nonetheless.

 

“Then what would you suggest, Ned? I’m tired, I’m damn thirsty, and I need a wench. Tell me what we should do and it shall be done.”

 

“I’d send out our fastest riders south through the Kingswood to see if any armies are amassing hidden within its foliage. I’d send them out now, so they might have the cover of darkness to hide their tracks.”

 

“Then what are you doing standing around here telling me about it, man, do it!” blustered Robert, and Ned gave a serious nod of his head and left the tent. As he did so, Jon clutched Ned’s shoulder as he passed, and gave him a proud smile and nod of his head to show his approval—at which Ned’s frozen face seemed to soften with its own sort of boyish pride at having pleased him. _His_ boys, they were all growing up, but still just as much the boys they had been when they’d come to him a dozen years ago. Gods he hoped he’d have the chance with Lysa to be a father as much as he had been to Ned, Robert, and Denys.

 

“Whad deenk you of dis plan, Jon?” asked Robert as he uncorked a bottle of cheap wine with his teeth. Having done so he spit it out, aiming for the dragon piece on the tactical map stationed at King’s Landing. He managed to hit it, knocking it over. Robert laughed over his success and then drank straight from the bottle.

 

“If only it were that simply, your grace,” answered Jon.

 

“Ned’s plan?” asked Robert with some slight confusion.

 

“I mean your shot,” explained Jon

 

Robert chuckled as he realized what he’d meant, “Oh… right. Still, you’ve said nothing of Ned’s plan.”

 

Jon felt his chest as though it were ‘bout to burst, “’Tis a sound strategy, your grace.”

 

“Quit calling me that, Jon, it don’t sound right! Seven hells, calling you Jon don’t sound right to me either,” admitted Robert as he place his boot upon the table and pushed to lean back in his chair so that two legs were off the ground.

 

“But that is what you shall be, when we win this war. T’would be best to get used to it now,” counseled Jon.

 

“Aye, but till I’m crowned, and anointed with the seven holy oils, I’m no King yet,” countered Robert

 

“True, but ne’er doubt that you will be crowned,” stated Jon.

 

Robert, withdrew his leg from the table, causing the front chair legs to return to the ground. He then looked up at Jon, staring him straight in the eyes, suddenly growing quiet and somber as he asked, “Do you think I was right to go to war?”

 

Jon knew what Robert needed now, knowing the lad to only become serious when something truly troubled him, “Of course, your grace. If not for Lyanna’s sake, nor Ned’s father and brother, know that if we had not gone to war, your head would already be on a spike. Aerys was the first to break faith with his lords and nobles. Only a tyrant would refuse to repay the wrongs committed against his subjects—and those that follow him simply have not seen the results of his madness for themselves.”

 

“Or are too afraid to oppose him,” added Robert.

 

Jon leaned forward in his own chair to help emphasize his point as his spoke, “There are other ways to be a king than ruling through fear. Fear will buy you strength today but it will not hold for all eternity.”

 

Robert laughed and took a swig, then saying, “It’s lasted the Targaryeons a little over two and a half centuries.”

 

“Even they did not always rule through fear, your grace. They weren’t always good kings, there weren’t always bad kings—some were even mediocre at best. But that matters not. What matters is what kind of King do you want to be?” asked Jon

 

Robert, still quite quiet, admitted, “I want not to be King. I’d rather live out the rest of my days being a sellsword or fighting in some goddamn war between the Essosi cities than sitting on my ass on that goddamn uncomfortable throne. It should have been Stannis who was born the elder. Or hell, Ned should have been my elder brother.”

 

Jon sighed before speaking, “Unfortunately we do not always get the opportunity to do what we want with our lives, especially those of us born to a higher class. It is our job to protect and take care of the small folk and nobles ‘neath our care. Like a wise parent, be kind, patient, and supportive of them. Guiding them through the mistakes they shall make, sacrificing our own pleasures so that they might have a bit more, comforting them when things seem ready to go wrong, and applauding them in their victories both big and small. Ne’er being o’erbearing, but being a firm rock for them to cling to. Steady, reliable, dependable. That’s our calling in life, and a King, why he’s called to that moreso than the rest of us. He sacrifices his own pleasures so that those beneath him may have the benefit of having theirs.”

 

“Aye, I suppose it to be so,” admitted Robert as he finished the bottle.

 

The next morning, as they rode out, Jon took time to ride with Ned, wanting to express his compliments at the man he’d seen him become through the victory, though knowing it not the best way to begin the conversation with Ned.

 

“When do you think we’ll have word from the riders?” asked Jon

 

Ned reported as though he were still a schoolboy repeating his lessons, “I sent our four best riders off with a raven each. They are supposed to ride as far south as the origin of the Wendwater, and if they see any sign of an army to send the ravens.”

 

Jon smiled, saying, “E’en better. You’ve truly grown into your own, especially at the Stoney Sept, Ned—you were a true commander of men there.”

 

Ned, always eager for praise—as any second son he’d known was—accepted this, but said nothing in reply to this, his face growing dark.

 

With some growing concern for the quiet wolf, Jon asked, “What is it?”

 

“The Stoney Sept was a senseless messy blood bath. There was no front line, there was no rear guard, it was just a crucible of death and violence,” said Ned darkly, his eyes narrowed and unreadable.

 

The Stoney Sept had been Ned’s first true battle, and what a battle to have seen as your first taste of war.

 

Jon thought on what he was to say in response to this before finally admitting, “All battles are senseless messy blood baths, but the fact you thought to bar the gates so that the Royal Army could not escape the town, and we’d not have to fight them again, t’was likely what won the day. Though I am pained to admit it, war is a grisly business, Ned. One that we fight to keep our families from knowing themselves.”

 

Ned said nothing for a moment, before replying “After the battle, I went out to see what part of the town was not touched by the fighting—none were. They’d e’en fought on top of the roofs, in the fountain, and e’en in the homes of some of the smallfolk. I found a dead smallfolk boy, weaponless and hardly beginning to become a man, just like Benjen is…how was his death honorable?”

 

“It weren’t,” admitted Jon, for he could not imagine any possible way that such a death could have any honor.

 

“We need to end this war soon—before much worse can occur,” Ned spoke adamantly, with a kind of dedication Jon had ne’er seen in him before.

 

“Aye, and we shall soon enough,” reassured Jon.

 

Just then a raven came soaring into view and returned to the Maester they’d kept in their company. Ned looked at him and Jon knew that the time for questioning themselves was over. Another battle loomed ahead.


	4. Rhaegar

**RHAEGAR**  
  
Lewyn Martell accompanied Rhaegar as they rode through the Kingswood at the head of the Royal Army of Dorne. Truth be told, he was rather terrible company, not speaking a word to him the entire way, though he rarely left his side. Prince Lewyn, one of his father’s Kingsguard had been sent to gather the Dornish to siege of Storm’s End moons ago, but with the news that soon to be broken by the Tyrell forces encamped outside the walls, they had continued north through the Prince's Pass to join the Royal Army of King’s Landing and rout Robert Baratheon’s weakened forces.   
  
Seven hells, the battle might already be over since Jon Connington had been rumored at Bitterbridge to have been put at the head of the army. Rhaegar thought fondly of his friend—nay his brother, for that was what Jon was to him—and wished him well in his battle, while praying to the warrior.  
  
Upon leaving the Tower of Joy, Rhaegar had told Lyanna not to worry, he would not have yet another of her family killed if it were in his power to prevent it. Though secretly he held that if Jon did kill her brother in battle he would count himself lucky for not having to deal with the situation at all. For some strange reason Lyanna had not taken to this news well. She had stared at him as though he were some creature she had ne’er known before, and when he had tried to assure her of his good intentions to do right by her remaining kin by promising to only banish her traitor elder brother while keeping the younger as Lord of Winterfell when ascending to the throne himself, Lyanna merely continued to view him with her rather suspicious looking eyes.   
  
What more did the she-wolf want from him? Her elder brother was a declared traitor, and traitors should rightly die. That he was willing to banish him was a great mercy and favor for her. Could she not see that? But then, these days Rhaegar knew not what Lyanna truly wanted and he doubted she did either. To entice her to come with him he had promised her his love and freedom after she had given birth and then weaned Visenya. He promised her everything for the sake of Visenya. He had e’en ensured her safety by finding a remote tower to call hers until Visenya was of age to be brought to court. He had provided everything and what did he get in return? Nothing but silent suspicious stares, that’s all she had done since the rumors of her father’s and eldest brother’s deaths had reached Dorne. She had wanted to leave then—had even tried to escape—but she had not yet gotten with child, like she had promised him, and the dragon must have three heads.  
  
Everything was ready for when Visenya was to come, of that Rhaegar prided himself on. He had waited until Lyanna was sure she was truly pregnant before leaving—he had figured the cycle of Lyanna’s moon’s blood relatively simply and during the key days had focused all his attention on getting Lyanna with child. As the weeks turned into moons, Lyanna had not been as eager as she had at first, but Rhaegar continued despite what she may have said. His son, the prince who was promised needed a Visenya. The dragon would have three heads and the song of ice and fire would begin… his son, the Prince who was Promised, would then save Westeros and all would be as it should. The only problem was the drunken stag and his followers. Why must these lords be so difficult? Could they not understand that this was what was best for the realm? No, all they could see was a small trifle of a personal slight—they were such selfish men to not see beyond that. Such matters were below the consideration of a dragon. A dragon thought of the good of the whole realm—not just some insignificant corner of it—and did what was best for them all, e’en if it meant offending some lord’s honor. The dragon must have three heads, or else the Prince would fail, song of ice and fire would not come to pass and Westeros would be plundged into eternal winter.  
  
Lyanna's moods must be due to the babe. She was but only a few moons big with child, but he had seen his own mother act abnormally when she had had Viserys—and his otherwise sweet Elia had grown rather vicious herself when with Rhaenys and Aegon. Yes that was what it must be. The child was simply bringing out more of the wolf in Lyanna that was all—dragons it seemed had that capability.  
  
Rhaegar was brought out of his reverie then by Lewyn, as two of the Dornish men dragged a man with a grey direwolf sigil upon the tunic over his armor was brought before him. The man was swollen, beaten, and bloodied, and he looked upon Rhaegar and Lewyn with that strange mixture of fear and hate that Rhaegar   
  
“A rebel spy, my Princes,” clarified one of the men dragging   
  
“A Stark spy it seems. What are you doing so far south of the Neck, little wolf?” chided Lewyn  
  
The man spoke not a word. Rhaegar was about to demand the lad with brown hair answer his father’s Kingsguard, but the Dornish prince interceded.  
  
“Let me handle this runt, my Prince,” he assured in that soothing Dornish manner of him that was at once assuring and frightening—at least it seemed so to   
  
“What’s your name, boy?” asked Prince Lewyn. Still the lad was silent. Prince Lewyn knew his task and took off his gauntlet and struck the boy’s face yet again, repeating his question once more.  
  
“Cassel… Jory Cassel,” answered the boy with some trepidation.  
  
“There now was that so hard?” asked the Prince.  
  
It was several more minutes and a few more reminders of the pain of the gauntlet before Rhaegar had heard enough of the Northern boy’s tale to understand the full grasp of their situation. He was bound and would be forced to walk as a prisoner the rest of the way to King’s Landing, which they must make with all haste.   
  
_Seven be merciful… please let Jon have lived!_  
  
As Prince Lewyn mounted his horse once more, Rhaegar brought himself back to the present and took stock of the Kingsguard’s face—it was hardened as stone and unforgiving.  
  
“You were rather harsh on the boy,” commented Rhaegar coolly.  
  
“You may not care for my niece’s life, goodnephew, but _I_ do,” said the Prince stiffly as he continued to accompany him along the journey, picking up their pace as they continued on the Roseroad through the Kingswood.


	5. Tywin

**TYWIN**

 

Word had traveled up the Gold Road of the utter defeat of the Royal Army of King’s Landing at the Stoney Sept by rebel forces as though it were a hare’s sprint. All the smallfolk could speak of was how the rebel forces under command of the “vicious Northern Wolf” had rescued their king from what would have otherwise been a slaughter in the other direction. The tales told of how Ned Stark had closed the gates to the town to trap the Army of King’s Landing inside and slaughtered them.

 

Tywin knew not what to think of these rumors, after all these were the same people who swore that they had seen him dance on the dead bodies of the Reynes of Castemere. Tywin would never have done anything so garish. Likewise the amount of truth in this tale that reached Casterly Rock was likely to be little at all beyond the fact that the new young Lord Eddard Stark—a second son everyone had thought of little consequence—was now considered responsible for turning the fate of the entire rebellion and putting King’s Landing in a delicate bind. For years everyone had forgotten that the North existed in Westeros—they kept to themselves and rarely traveled south of the Neck that it was easy to simply forget about them. But now it seemed after nearly two and half centuries of keeping to themselves the Starks and the North were committing themselves more firmly to the realm by having a hand in choosing who sat upon the Iron Throne. Clearly they were a power to eye with caution. But Tywin knew one other thing, you may put a man on the throne today, but it will be his children that will reign after him, and so whoe’er became the Baratheon’s Queen would secure the succession of the new king’s line.  
  
And besides, Tywin knew best when to act. Let the Starks, Baratheons, Arryns, and Tullys march to King’s Landing and put it to siege. Before they take the city and punish Aerys for his crimes they shall decimate their forces. Then they’ll be in need of reinforcements when they turn around to find the Tyrells and Martells—for once united in common cause—knocking at the gates they just smashed down. And it would be then that the Lannisters would arrive, just in time to relieve the new king, and in so doing secure that there would be a Lannister Queen.

 

Tywin called for Cersei immediately to come to his solar. While he waited for her he took a pleasant walk out onto the terrace his solar opened up to. He spied the vastness of the Sunset sea before him, and admired its haunting beauty. Below in the small courtyard that served as a practice yard he saw the mistake attempting to be taught how to fight with a sword. He was utterly useless, but he was still a Lannister, and a Lannister should know how to defend oneself. As it was Tywin saw the dwarf would likely ne’er be able to do so.

 

“You summoned me, father?” asked a light voice, and Tywin turned to see his daughter, who held a beauty even more stunning than his Joanna had at her age.

 

“I have long promised that you would be Queen one day. Have I not?” asked Tywin.

 

“Aye, but beyond becoming Prince Rhaegar’s second mistress, how I am to get close to him,” scoffed his daughter.

 

“There will soon be a new family upon the Iron Throne, and he is as of yet, unmarried,” remarked Tywin.

 

“You mean to throw your support behind the rebels, then?” asked Cersei.

 

“Robert will be the rightful king when you marry him. Forget all this talk of rebels.”

 

“Of course father,” answered Cersei.

 

Tywin then dismissed his daughter and called for his maester and steward. If he intended to begin gathering his forces, he would need to start writing the letters for the ravens immediately.


	6. Eddard

**EDDARD**  
  
When he closed his eyes he was back in the Stoney Sept. The chaos of the battle all around him as men ran everywhere fighting any and all who got in the way. He saw the men jumping from roof to roof, knocking over and destroying anything and everything that dared get in the way of their fight. Battles were not meant to be fought this way—amongst a town. It should have been in the fields outside of the town, not the streets of it. But what stuck to Ned’s mind most of all was the sight of the smallfolk who had died—killed for no reason beyond that they had been there. He saw a woman with her skull bashed in cradling the bloodied corpse of her infant. He saw an old man with his neck slashed open. And lastly there had been the boy bout Benjen’s age, stabbed clean through his chest. These deaths had been declared “accidents” officially that none laid claim to having committed. The thought that the killers of these smallfolk could use the confusion of battle for the excuse to be brutal to people who didn’t even fight back chilled Ned to his bone.   
  
The war must end soon and swiftly, to protect the lives of more smallfolk. This meant defeating the approaching army quickly and then turning around and sieging the capital, but how to do so without incurring more loss than they could afford? The Tyrells had the largest army in all the seven kingdoms and if they turned north to end the siege of Storm’s End and join the Dornish the raven had warned were marching through the Kingswood… they’d be outnumbered and pressed against the walls of King’s Landing to be slaughtered like sheep. This meant they had to take the battle to the Dornish before they could be joined by the Tyrells—which meant fighting in the forest.  
  
Their force arrived outside of the city before the approaching army of Dornishmen marching up the Roseroad was to arrive. This gave them the opportunity to choose the best ground for the battle to come. They would choose how the battle to come would be fought.  
  
“We can’t let them get to the city and retreat behind the safety of its damn thick walls,” stated Robert.  
  
“Aye, but we can’t put our backs up against its walls and expect the city to not shoot arrows at us,” countered Jon  
  
“We must take the battle to them,” offered Ned.  
  
“In the Kingswood? Where can a proper battle take place amongst those thick trees?” asked Denys.  
  
Robert gave a knowing smirk, before saying, “We’ll fight as we did in the Stoney Sept. That worked well for us before, didn’t it?”  
  
“Exactly. What is a Dornishman’s preferred weapon of choice?” asked Ned rhetorically to make his point.  
  
 _A spear_ , echoed through the silence of the tent and Ned knew his point had been made.  
  
Ned continued, “I suggest we put a small force of men down here,” he said pointing to where the Roseroad and Stormroad came together at a crossroads, “say 6,000 or so, and have the rest of our forces at the edge of the Kingswood and along the road leading to King’s Landing with archers hidden amongst the trees. That way when the Dornish attack, our small force gives them a little battle, then retreats back to the edge of the forest where the rest of our forces will lie in wait. We draw them down the road with the promise of getting us out into the open where they’ll be able to better fight with their spears, but—“  
  
“They’ll then fall into our trap before they can leave the trees,” finished Jon.  
  
Ned arranged the pieces out on a map for Robert and Denys. At the end of the Kingsroad he placed a small wooden block with a stag relief carved into it. At the crossroads a block with the Stark direwolf, and on either side of the stag were blocks with a falcon and a fish. Then taking a block in the shape of a sun, he moved the sun up to the crossroads, then the direwolf fell back to where the stag was at the edge of the forest, with the Sun right behind. Ned then used some unmarked blocks to exemplify archers hidden in the trees along either side of the road, explaining that when the retreating force had drawn them to where the archers were waiting, that the archers would then let loose a volley upon the Dornish, while the forces at the end of the road would block the escape of the Dornish into the fields beyond. Then Ned moved the falcon and fish blocks down on either side of the sun block and explained that after the volley had been let loose they would then swarm the remaining forces from either side.  
  
“The ones that try and escape into the Kingswood or back down the road, the archers will take care of with a second round. By the time they realize they’ve been drawn into a trap it’ll be too late for them to do anything about it,” finished Ned.  
  
No one spoke for a moment and Ned worried that they’d instead opt to hide amongst the trees and battle the Dornish one on one—which would only favor the spear wielders. Ned had seen enough of close combat in confined spaces. Soon enough after the shock of his suggestion had worn out of the tent, the plan was agreed to, with the only thing left to decide being who would command the force at the crossroads. Denys volunteered immediately.  
  
“I’ll lead them,” he said with an eagerness that Ned had cause to suspect.  
  
But to everyone’s surprise it was Jon who then said, “No, Denys, I’ll command the force at the crossroads—and none of you will dissuade me from doing so.”  
  
Robert commanded, “All right, let’s put these plans into motion before those suns start peeking through the trees.”  
  
And so they were. Ned felt a tension he had not known was there lift from his person. It would be a traditional battle, with the chaotic warfare of the Stoney Sept best left forgotten to the pages of history.


	7. Lyanna

**LYANNA**  
  
It had all been because of a song. No matter how she thought it through the songs the singers sang were the reason that she was in this mess. Whether it was her admiration for the honor and noble deeds within them that had spurred her on to defend her father’s bannerman, little Howland Reed—or the appreciation of one hauntingly sad song played at a feast that had been sung so beautifully that she’d unguardedly shed a tear or two. Songs were to blame. Mistakenly she had thought life like a song, and her the hero capable to defend the poor and downtrodden as well as find love, freedom, and happiness. But now Lyanna saw that despite the pretty words a singer sings that life is not a song.  
  
After Harrenhal, Rhaegar had written to her in secret claiming his love and passion for her. Once again it was words which had undone her—words that sang so sweetly when she read them over and over again in her head. It had not taken much on his part she realized now, a few lines, a few promises, and she had given herself to him.   
  
_Foolish. Foolish girl._  
  
She had run away to avoid marriage to a man she could not love. Her first mistake was _there_ in thinking that marriage had anything to do with love. She had run to avoid being locked away in some tower of Storm’s End, forced to bear Robert’s children and likely die without ever being spoken of again—like mother had on the babe after Benjen. And yet here she was, locked away in a tower, being forced to bear someone’s child—a bastard who would have the world against him before he drew his first breath.   
  
_The gods must surely be laughing at me._  
  
She now realized that the problem with Robert Baratheon had never been that they were at all dissimilar. On the contrary the problem was that they were far too alike. So alike that Lyanna had been able to see and know him immediately. And now she realized knowing Robert was like staring into a distorted piece of Myrish glass--seeing all her faults put before her in an exaggerated manner that she could not ignore. Had she been born with a cock between her legs instead of without she might very well have become exactly like Robert. His adoration of her proved that he too took more stock in songs than was healthy. From all the talk of fighting he had gone on and on about, it was clear both yearned for adventure of some sort. And as loathe as she was to admit it, had she not entertained the idea of a lover in the form of Rhaegar while betrothed to Robert? Mayhaps if she had been born with a cock, she too might have grown up to think like Brandon and Robert that the supposed “weaker sex” was meant to spread their legs for her pleasures.   
  
Ned, poor sweet deluded Ned, must have thought that their similarities would bind her and Robert closer together. But they would not have. Both she and Robert wanted to be the man in the relationship, but only one of them could be. And Robert would most certainly not play the part of the woman for her. He after all had the cock, and she would have been forced to submit in the end. And that she had not wanted.  
  
Mayhaps that was what was so appealing about Rhaegar to begin with. He had not wooed her like a man would. He gave his love openly and freely and had played a beautiful haunting song for her, like a lady might when trying to seduce the man she secretly desired.  
  
She should have tested Rhaegar’s declarations of love. It is what any lady in a song would have done. She should have challenged him to bring her some gift and set him on some test to prove his love. But Lyanna had made yet another mistake—she had thought herself the hero of her own story, and that she had earned the love of the Prince through her own trials at Harrenhal. In her folly, she had thought herself the man and Rhaegar as the woman. And he had played the part of the woman well had he not? Enticing her love not with gifts but with a sad song. And once the woman in those songs gives her love that was the end of the song was it not? The songs never tell of what came after, of how they lived—only briefly mentioning that they had many children who would then join them on further adventures after growing up some.  
  
As a woman in body if not spirit, she should have insisted for a secret second marriage to test Rhaegar’s willingness to love her. Targaryeons had been polygamous before, why not again? Testing him, as a lady should do, would have been the smart thing. But Robert and her father had put her off of the idea of marriage so much that she had entirely given up on the institution altogether when Rhaegar had asked her to run away with him.   
  
Instead she had imagined that she would escape with her love to some place in Essos—he would give up his crown and they would travel together, having adventures from city to city. Living on the run, where it mattered not if she were married to him, only that she was together with her love. When she asked for that, he had promised her that one day they would do such things together. But first he asked of her a child to secure his son’s inheritance—so that there would be three heads of the dragon and that he could then rest easy while on their travels, having fulfilled his duty to some prophesy—and she had been so eager for the freedom of Essos that she had agreed without thinking.   
  
_Stupid. Stupid girl._  
  
And thus she had come here to this tower, thinking that once she had done as she’d promised that she would be free to go. Instead she was held prisoner in it not by a dragon but instead by three honorable knights. Again did the gods mock her love of songs. It might have been bearable if her captors were cruel, for then it might have been like something out of a song—they were anything but. They were unfailing kind and attentive, well except for Ser Arthur—who looked on her like some vicious beast. But even he was never unkind or dishonorable to her, but unlike the other two he did not seem to pity her. She cared not for their pity or Arthur’s anger, for neither meant she was regarded more than the vessel to bring Rhaegar’s bastard into this world. And being seen as that made her wolf's blood boil like none other.  
  
When word came of Brandon and father’s deaths, it had been a shock to her. In all her mad desire to get away she had never stopped to think of what she was leaving behind nor how they would react, and now they were dead because of her. She might have loathed the power her father had had over her and his insistence that she be as lady-like as could be. But he had still been her father. He had indulged her whims, held her when she was frightened, played with her when her brothers had no interest in doing so, taught her to ride a horse and had even indulged her by let her ride the rings. He had stubbornly insisted she play the part of a woman, but then mayhaps he had seen where Lyanna’s thoughts of playing hero would lead her to misery before she had? He had had his faults, but he had loved her, had he not? And hearing of him gone reminded her that she had as well. Brandon’s death… gods it pained her to think on it. Her eldest brother who had a winsome smile, and was everything a Stark King of old was--brave, brash, and bold. He had understood her--far more than either Ned or Benjen. He may not have always agreed with her, but he had innately and immediately knew her mind without ever having to ask. And now they were gone... some nights she could not sleep for crying. She couldn’t accept that they were gone, like mother. And she’d ne’er be able to say goodbye, to tell them how she had loved them.  
  
It was only in the light of their loss that she had realized that she wasn’t playing the part of the victorious Hero of Harrenhal, but instead the ruined Lady of Winterfell, and the awful irony of her situation dawned upon her. She had tried to escape, to return to Winterfell and the two brothers she still had left—her pack—before they too were taken from her, before the Mad King's rage left them for dead. But Rhaegar had discovered her before she had gotten far, and with the help of the three Kingsguard had dragged her back to the tower where she was supposed to “fulfill her promise” as he put it. Only then would she be free to leave—and not before.  
  
When at last it became physically evident that she was with child Rhaegar had left her—as though she held no more importance to him. He did not love her, and likely never had. He had simply said some words to bring her here to this point.  
  
At first she had been angry at the dragonseed he’d spilt inside her. She wanted to tear it out and strangle it before it could take its first breath. But these feelings did pass as dreams of a man—a Stark looking man with not a single Targaryeon attribute to him—did enter her dreams. Sometimes he looked like Brandon, other times her father, but mostly he looked like Ned. And with these dreams Lyanna did come to hope that this man would be the child within her womb. So each night she prayed to her gods to forgive her mistakes and bless her with a son.   
  
_Give me a son to spite Rhaegar’s plans for a Visenya._ Let the warrior queen ne’er be reborn.  
  
 _Give me a son to assist me in my vengeance against Rhaegar._ The dragon that had played her like his high harp for a fool.  
  
 _Give me a son so that he may be a man._ And so her child would not have to suffer the pains of being a woman in this world… like she had.


	8. Denys II

**DENYS**  
  
The battle had gone almost exactly as Ned had planned it—and it was as equally a slaughter as the Stoney Sept had been. The worst of all was that Lord Jon, in leading the men meant to draw the Dornish into the trap had been gravely injured with a wound to his side. Jon had reached the lines, a broken spear in his side and buried deep into him.  
  
It should have been him—not Jon—who had led that maneuver. He was the one with no family to return home to and nothing left to lose. It would have been an honorable death, securing a better future. Damn his hide. With Jon dead, Robert and Ned had lost themselves—Robert to fury and Ned to shock. Ned was in silent shock about the entire affair, refusing to speak a word since the battle had ended. Robert… well, Robert had found an outlet for his anger when to everyone’s surprise Prince Rhaegar was discovered amongst the Dornish Army.  
  
Something snapped in Robert when Rhaegar was seen as part of the Dornish host. He had charged straight into the melee for the Dragon Prince, his Stormlords right behind him, and escalated the battle further into a bloodbath. What was left of Rhaegar when Robert’s war hammer had finished with him was a bloodied pulp oozing out of his severely dented armor, red rubies having flown everywhere. The sight accompanied by Robert’s characteristically horned helmet accompanied by the pitiful remains of Rhaegar when he was finished with the man sent a chill down Denys’ spine. He had never thought the younger man capable of such anger. Denys now saw that his house words spoke truly as a warning as much as Ned’s: “Ours is the Fury” indeed.  
  
When the battle had finished most of the ten thousand Dornish spearmen lay dead upon the road to King’s Landing, with the few remaining alive including some of the nobles who had yielded once they realized the trap they’d been lured into and been terrified by the sight of the “Demon of the Woods” brutal attack on the Dragon Prince. A small handful of common soldiers had managed to escape at the rear of the line running back down the road and managed to avoid the archers’ arrows by sheer luck. Soon news of this battle would spread south to the Tyrells and Dorne it seemed.  
  
A surprise was found quivering underneath a Dornish supply cart: Jory Cassel, who Ned had sent out a few days prior to scout along with three other riders. He had been badly beaten beyond all recognition, but he was alive. Amongst the dead of both sides included Lord Martyn Cassel, Lord Elys Waynwood, Lord Jonos Bracken, Prince Lewyn Martell, and Lord Ormond Yronwood.  
  
That evening Denys, Robert and Ned gathered together in Robert's tent to discuss what to do next, but all they could think on was the fact that Jon was dead.  
  
“Seven help us, what are we to do now?” Denys had asked as they sat around .  
  
“We tear that bloody madman from the Iron Throne—limb by limb preferably,” roared Robert drunkenly as he pounded his fist against the table—already well into what was his third bottle of wine.  
  
“We need to write to Riverrun to tell Lysa,” muttered Ned quietly. He seemed completely lost in some world of his own.  
  
“And risk the Tully alliance?” bellowed Robert.  
  
“I still remain married to Catelyn, do I not? And last I heard she was with child. My goodfather can’t turn his back on our alliance with that security.”  
  
“I’d prefer not to test his loyalties. We may have defeated two Royal armies and killed Rhaegar, but there’s still the damn Royal Army of Dragonstone yet to be summoned and the Tyrells to deal with. Only the Seven know what Tywin Lannister will do. And don’t bloody well forget that Aerys still sits his skinny ass upon the gods damned Iron Throne. Forgive me, but I’d rather be sure that Hoster fucking Tully isn’t even tempted to betray us to the Iron Throne.”  
  
“You’re being paranoid,” growled Ned.  
  
This only seemed to enrage Robert further as he began, “You’re damn right I’m paranoid! We’re—”  
  
Denys had heard enough, interjecting himself between Ned and Robert he said, nearly shouting, “We can’t argue! We argue and we lose.”  
  
And suddenly Jon's words to him on the march here returned to Denys: _Give up not. Fight this war to make such a world as they should have lived in._  
  
Denys continued, Jon’s words to him spurring him to speak further, “We cannot give up and argue. We’ll deal with the Tyrells when they come—mayhaps we could send some sort of envoy to bring the Lannisters to our cause, the Dornish won’t have any love for us, but they would be best served staying out of the rest of the war. We need to take the city now—before Dragonstone can reinforce the city. The most important thing is that we don’t give up. We need to keep fighting for Jon, and then we’ll rebuild the kingdoms in honor to him.”  
  
Robert seemed the most inspired by his words as he said, “You’re right… _Lord_ Denys.”  
  
At first Denys was confused by the honorific but then he realized something He was right… with Jon and Elbert dead, he was now Lord Denys Arryn, Lord of the Vale, Head of the Arryns of the Eyrie, and Warden of the East. Seven help him he’d never expected this—never wanted it—but now it was his.  
  
“And you can put my mind at ease by promising to marry Lysa Tully Arryn—after a proper period of mourning, of course,” finished Robert with a look that seemed to suggest it was more than just a mere suggestion. That angered Denys. He had not even seen his wife and son buried, and now he was expected to have to marry his not-even-cold dead cousin’s wife?  
  
“Robert, don’t—” began Ned.  
  
With some restraint, Denys said, “I’ll consider it.”  
  
Ned looked at him with a look of shock that Denys wondered would become a permanent fixture upon his face if it appeared more often.  
  
“Dammit, do I have to order you Denys?” asked Robert with exasperation.  
  
“My _wife and son_ have just died, and now you ask me to marry before I have had time to grieve them?” snapped Denys. Denys wasn't intimidated by Robert—he remembered the boy that he had been when he'd arrived at the Eyrie.  
  
  
“Seven Hells, I said after a proper period of mourning. Take as much time as you need Denys—but I would feel more at ease taking King’s Landing knowing that there’s at least a promise to preserve the alliance with the Riverlands.”  
  
“All right, I’ll marry her, _after_ the war,” admitted Denys and Robert gave a visible sigh of relief, who then said that the letter to Lord Tully should be drafted immediately. Ned, bless him convinced Robert that such a proposal would be inappropriate to send along with the notice of Jon’s death. Denys knew that the task would then have to fall to him to write his own letter to arrive a few days after news had reached Riverrun.  
  
 _Seven help me. Forgive me Annalys… forgive me Jasper._


	9. Aerys II

**AERYS**  
  
Rhaella screamed beneath him. He loved it when she screamed. The traitor messenger’s burning had been so… intoxicating that he had to have Rhaella at least one last time before he awoke the dragon. He scratched at the sensitive skin between her thighs, she reeled in pain, he bit and gnashed at her breasts—already the dragon within him was yearning to burst forth. Her blood stained the sheets and fueled him more. Fire and Blood—they were more than just his House words, they were what gave him life.  
  
He was to release the dragon within him, like his ancestors of old Valyria, and then he would rain down fire and blood upon that treacherous fawn and his lapdog. But he would not be alone in this endeavor—no. The dragon must have three heads after all, and he, Viserys, and Aegon would all awake the dragons within themselves this night.  
  
Aerys could not wait to see the pitiful rebels run like ants beneath him.  
  
Rhaella had fallen unconscious by this point—he always hated when she went lifeless like this—he needed to hear her scream. No amount of biting or scratching would wake her from this state—and he wasn’t even spent this time.   
  
_Damn her! She has always ruined my fun._  
  
Aerys readjusted himself and put his clothes on so he could go and meet his future dragons to be in his private chambers as he had requested the Kingsguard to bring them to him.  
  
Outside of his chambers Jonothor Darry and the lion cub stood guard. He found young Aegon being burped by the wet nurse inside, and a rather bored and obviously tired Viserys was playing with a wooden dragon that Rhaella had made for him. Soon he would be a dragon all his own, and the need for such wooden props would cease. Aerys dismissed the wet nurse when she had finished burping the mewing infant.  
  
“Are you sure you want to be left alone with the little Prince, your grace? I mean he gets a little fussy after—”  
  
“What part of leave don’t you understand, woman?” spewed Aerys.  
  
And with that, the wet nurse left as he had commanded. Once she had, Aerys went to his desk where he had put the box containing the vials of wildfire he’d requested from Lord Rossart.  
  
“Why are Aegon and I here father?” asked Viserys as he leaned against the front of his desk, watching him pull out the black dragonglass box with rubies encrusted in it in the shape of his house sigil.  
  
Aerys flipped open the lid to the box and the green of the three wildfire vials shown forth, illuminating his and Viserys’ faces. On the other side of the desk Aegon gurgled. It was then then that Aerys looked at his son and grandson and said, “It’s time to wake the dragons.”  
  
Viserys contorted his face in confusion, “How do we wake the dragons? They’re all just old skulls.”  
  
Aerys picked up Aegon, and holding him with one arm, admiring the proud Targaryeon features of his grandson for one last time—soon he would be in an even more noble form as a dragon. He then answered Viserys, saying, “Not those dragons of old, Viserys—the dragons inside us, that claw and yearn to stretch their wings free from this pitiful shell we wear.”  
  
Viserys looked at Aerys with confusion—no matter, he would understand soon enough. Aerys then pulled out one vial and handed it to Viserys, who took it still staring at it in wonder.  
  
  
Aerys cautioned, “Careful… now when I tell you to, I want you to open the vial… and drink it all. I’ll help your nephew to drink his.”  
  
Viserys continued to look on in awe at the vial in his hand as the liquid green fire moved wildly within it vial--as though it were alive. Aerys smiled… soon the dragon would have three heads.


	10. Jaime

**JAIME**

 

The first hint that something was wrong came when Jaime heard screams from within Aerys’ chamber, followed quickly by the babe’s wails. His wife was one matter, but now his son and grandson? This was too much. This was hardly honorable. How could a King be so vicious? He wanted to go inside and put a stop to things once and for all, but Ser Darry blocked his way.

 

“We have to protect the royal family, don’t we?”

 

Ser Darry gave Jaime a sad look before “Not from him. We protect the King first and foremost, never forget that Lannister.”

 

“But there’s a future King in that room!” insisted Jaime. At this Ser Darry seemed conflicted. It was only a moment later when Aerys’ mad wailings that were a mixture between laughter and screams joined the chorus from the children that Ser Darry moved aside and Jaime opened the door to a horrible sight.

 

There before him stood three green glowing forms being consumed by green wildfire. The wildfire came oozing from their mouths, dribbling down their chins and onto their clothes and setting their entire bodies aflame. The children had already fallen to the floor and were quickly being burnt beyond recognition as their final screams were heard—the green fire then continued to spread across their bodies, burning away—the worst came from the swelling of their bodies which then exploded in a bloody mess of blood and green flames. Pieces of the young princes flying everywhere, one in particular flew rather close to them, breaking Jaime’s entrancement as he backed away from the flaming piece of flesh that oozed and burned rather too close for comfort near him.

 

By this point the King himself had fallen forward onto his desk, the wildfire spreading and catching it on fire. Jaime had heard tale of wildfire and its insatiable appetite to burn.

 

Aerys’ body burst at this moment a piece of flaming wildfire flesh hitting Ser Darry squarely in his face—his hair catching fire. Jaime scrambled back away from the other knight as he began to scream and catch fire himself. From inside of the King’s solar Jaime saw a larger green glow cast out into the hall. Jaime wished he could help his Kingsguard brother—but it was too late—the wildfire could only get on him if he attempted to do anything. He was helpless… all he could do was run.

 

 _Seven Hells! The wildfire is spreading—it will continue to spread to how large_ _ _ _—__ the Seven only know!_ _We have to get out of the Red Keep! The Queen and the Princesses!_

 

Jaime ran for the Queen’s compartments, Jaime knew what Rhaella would be like after having visited Aerys—the practice was not new between the King and his sister wife—but that did not stop Jaime from taking a moment to feel an utter loathing for the man. He had deserved his fate. When he arrived at the Queen’s compartments he found it guarded by Ser Barristan—his senior in the Kingsguard who looked tired and weary.  
  
“Ser Jaime, what troubles you so?” asked the elder knight, concerned at the exhausted manner Jaime appeared in having run a good length of the castle to reach here in his armor.  
  
“The King and princes… have swallowed wildfire! We need to get… the Queen and princesses to safety!” shouted Jaime while catching his breath.  
  
Ser Barristan stared almost blankly at Jaime, dumbfounded, as though he knew not what to do. This was too much, Jaime expected for Ser Barristan the Bold—the man he’d admired and led him to desire to join the Kingsguard—to know what to do and take charge of the situation. But here in this moment Ser Barristan seemed as confused and shocked as his brother Tyrion had the day he’d learned that his father did not care for him like he did for his other children. It killed Jaime to see the legend humbled, but there was little time to dwell on this, as something had to be done.  
  
“Perhaps you should take care of her grace, Ser Barristan, while I go to the Maiden’s Vault and retrieve the Princesses?” suggested Jaime in the form of a question. At this Ser Barristan seemed to gain a hold of himself and nodded, dismissing Jaime—at once he was Ser Barristan the Bold… but Jaime would ne’er forget the moment when he hadn’t been.

  
The Red Keep was in total disarray as news from the servants about the wildfire sent the castle into a panic. Doors were heard opening and slamming shut, the dull thundering of footsteps going wild. Jaime had to get to the Maiden’s Vault—the Princesses had been locked inside ever since Aerys had taken young Aegon away from Elia. He had failed Aegon and Viserys—Seven help him. But he would not fail Elia and Rhaenys!


	11. Elia

**ELIA**

 

It was lonely in the Maidenvault, Rhaenys, though she were a sweet child and she loved her dearly, she was not much for company. E’er since Aegon had been taken from her Elia ached to have him once again in her arms. It felt almost as if he had died—though she knew it ridiculous to think of it in that way. She missed his little hiccups, his dimpled little chin, and the slight speckles of black amongst his loving violet eyes. She imagined a million times a day she heard his joyful laughter, and ear-shattering screams that she could only tell what he meant by them—for they knew a language that held more meaning than the spoken word.

 

She had fallen asleep amongst a pile of pillows—Rhaenys curled up next to her when she awoke to the sound of screaming somewhere far off. And it wasn’t just any screaming—she knew it was Aegon’s. Somewhere in the Red Keep he was being hurt—she knew it. But no one else seemed to hear them—Rhaenys, ever the light sleeper, continued to sleep soundly. She had dismissed it at the time to the remnants of a horrible dream.

 

It wasn’t until Ser Jaime Lannister came that Elia knew she dreamed not.

 

_Aegon… my babe… damn the king to the deepest of all the Seven Hells! May he be chained and know the agony like he has given me now!_

 

It wasn’t until she saw Ser Jaime staring at her and heard Rhaenys ask her what was wrong that Elia realized she had actually said that aloud.

 

“We must be going, now!” urged

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“Out of the Red Keep—away from the wildfire!” insisted Ser Jaime.

 

“And where in the city shall we go?” wondered Elia.

 

It was then that a fat figure stepped out from behind a folding screen: Aerys’ Eunuch.

 

“Out of the Red keep and to a ship waiting in the harbor to take you, the Queen, and Princess Rhaenys to Dragonstone,” said the bald man gently.

 

“How did you get in here?!” demanded Ser Jaime, putting himself between the Eunuch and her and Rhaenys.

 

“There is in this corner a secret passage that leads down to other tunnels and eventually out of the keep. The Red Keep is full of such passages and pathways and my little birds have found many. Come, my dear, we have little time.”

 

Something was wrong here—the Eunuch wanted them out of the city too much and appeared too conveniently. “Fleeing the Red Keep I understand, but the city itself?” asked Elia.

  
“My Princess, the King, his son, and yours are dead. The rebels have defeated the Army of King’s Landing and the Army of Dorne. They have also fought and killed your husband. Tomorrow they shall be at the gates to the city. Do you truly wish to stay and see if the new conquerors of Westeros shall show you mercy?” asked Varys

 

Rhaegar was dead? Seven help her. She had prayed to the Stranger to take him—the moment she had heard he’d run off with that she-wolf… but now… to think that her prayers had been answered. Seven help her she hadn’t meant for this to happen. Was this all her fault? All her prayers and nightmares were to be answered? The Seven-who-are-One is cruel indeed.

 

A scream was heard not far from outside the doors to the Maidenvault.

 

“We have not the time to argue this any further, I must insist that you come, my Princess,” urged Lord Varys.

 

It felt wrong trusting the man that Aerys in his paranoia had put so much faith in, but what other choice was there? Robert Baratheon would be knocking at the gate come morning, and when word of Aerys’, Viserys, and Aegon’s deaths left the Red Keep…only the Seven knew what would happen. Would the Gold cloaks listen to her and the Queen? Not likely. Elia remembered how the guards had dragged her here without a second thought and realized she did not want to test the loyalty of these men, nor did she care to find out. It made sense to leave now—before the stag beat down the door. Leave while confusion reigned o’er the keep. She grabbed a cloak for herself and Rhaenys, and with that, she, Rhaenys, and Ser Jaime followed Lord Varys through a passage hidden behind a false wall panel and began their descent into darkness.

 

Rhaenys, still tired had to be carried by Ser Jaime so that Elia could keep up with their pace—she had not walked this fast in all her life and the strain did much to make her lose her breath—but still she pushed on, taking moments when she could to breath deeper and fuller.

 

They arrived at the harbor as Lord Varys had promised and boarded a ship— _The Dragon’s Fang_ —where Ser Barristan had already brought the unconscious Queen. Along with them were a few servants and a few knights—most notably Ser Willem Darry. His brother, Ser Jonothor was missing, but they waited for him not as the ship set sail not long after they had boarded and settled in.

 

The trip to Dragonstone would be short, but it still required for Elia to find some rest and when she closed her eyes she saw her Aegon… her sweet babe engulfed in flames and heard the scream from that night. So the second night at sea, Elia walked the decks, trying to find some amount of solace, but all she found was the Eunuch.

 

“Trouble sleeping, my Princess?” he asked silkily as he joined her looking out onto the waters of Blackwater Bay.

 

“Do you have a penchant for asking the obvious, or are you truly curious?” asked Elia, her emotions still raw with the image of her darling son burning.

 

“Have I offended you?” asked Lord Varys, emoting as though he were actually hurt by her thoughtless lashing.

 

Elia reminded herself that it would do no good to air her suspicions here, not when she was indebted to him for her rescue. In fact it might benefit her more to reply with a different answer, “No, Lord Varys, my thoughts trouble me and make me irritable.”

 

“Thoughts of your young son?” asked the Eunuch.

 

Elia wanted to spit at him. What right had he to speak of her babe? But she held her tongue.

 

“My Princess, I have some news which will greatly interest you concerning the whereabouts of your son. I had wanted to save this news for Dragonstone—but if it will help you sleep…” offered Varys.

 

_Seven damn the eunuch._

 

“My son is dead in the Red Keep, what more is there to know?” asked Elia as diplomatically as she could.

 

“But that’s just it, he is not, my princess. You do recall when young Brandon Stark came to… challenge your husband to a duel, do you not?” asked Varys.

 

_Where was he going with this?_

 

Elia answered, “Aye.”

 

He then fed her the next juiciest bit of information, dangling it before her like he might a piece of string in front of cat—eager to see her take a swipe at I without thinking. He continued, “And how when he was first brought before the King he made that telling remark about Lady Dayne’s increased fullness of her figure?”

 

Gods, the only thing she’d laughed at that entire day, only to be replaced with complete horror as Ashara had broken down crying.

 

Still, why would she need be reminded of all this? “I know the story, Lord Varys, as I arranged to send her out of the city myself after the Starks were murdered. I fail to see how it pertains to my son!”

 

“You did arrange for her to leave, but she left not alone. She left with a babe in her arms—your son, Aegon,” confided Lord Varys.

 

Aegon? He could still be alive? Wait, no. No. This was not possible. He was dead. She knew not how she knew, but she could feel it to her core. Aegon was dead. Then her thoughts continued to turn over this. She had held Aegon in her arms as often as she could in the time since he was born—she knew him well. She knew him by his dimpled chin, his eyes, and his laugh. The babe that had been in her arms three days ago she knew in her bones she had given birth to. But then, why would Lord Varys tell her all this? Was he hoping that in her grief she would latch on to the first babe that he promised was her son—risen from the dead? And how had Varys known then though that there would be a rebellion. In those days it was simply a small argument between House Targaryen and House Stark—war had not come yet…

 

There was something wrong, not just with his story, and she would discover what they were. Had he planned all along for the rebels to win? Was he in a secret alliance with them? She would need to find out. She could pull a mummer’s farce as well as the next man. And one day, Varys would regret ever taunting her with the false promise of Aegon’s life.

 

But in the meantime, she would go along with it, publicly at least, “My son… alive?”

 

“Aye, my lady,” answered Lord Varys with a sickeningly sweet smile, as though happy to have finally ensnared her in his web… like a spider. Only he did not realize that it was he who was the fly.


	12. Eddard II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was pointed out to me on AH.com that Ethan was being held in the Black Cells during all of this, not with the Army of the North, so instead Theo Wull kicked the bucket in the Battle of the Kingswood. My apologies. Just goes to show I need to refresh on the tiny details from time to time. There is just so much to remember.

**EDDARD**  
  
The smoke from the Red Keep could be seen for miles—it appeared not to be completely destroyed, but part of it looked damaged enough that it made the rebels wonder what had occurred there. Was Aerys planning some kind of weapon to use against them that had accidentally gotten out of control? He was known to be fond of Wildfire—and wildfire could explain why that part of the Red Keep looked so horribly damaged while the rest of the structure remained intact.  
  
They reached the River Gate—or the Mud Gate as the smallfolk referred to it—to find that at the gate waited Lord Manly Stokeworth in the uniform of his office as the leader of the City Watch—or gold cloaks. He waited on the shores of the Blackwater River, with several of his officers and armed men, bearing the white flag of peace and negotiations. Lord Stokeworth was an older man, with gray already well mixed in his longer hair of brown. He was a rather plain looking man, but with one feature of note: a very round nose that looked almost as though it had no point. Once Robert, Denys, and Eddard—along with guards of their own reached the shores of the Blackwater an extraordinary thing occurred—Manly Stokeworth dropped to one knee in front of Robert—as did his surrounding gold cloaks.  
  
“The King is dead,” began Lord Stokeworth while upon his knee.  
  
Shouts of “Long Live the King,” followed.  
  
 _Aerys is dead? Gods, is there to be no justice for father or Brandon?_  
  
Robert accepted their allegiance and this news from horseback, with as much shock and bluster as he had ever had: “Seven Hells! The bastard’s truly dead? Oh get up off your bloody knees already.”  
  
Lord Stokeworth and his gold cloaks rose from their knees, per their new king’s request. “My men found his and the two princes’ charred remains ourselves, your grace,” replied Lord Stokeworth.  
  
“And the women?” asked Ned.  
  
Lord Stokeworth and his men eyed Ned oddly when he spoke. Ned knew not what to think of this.  
  
“Missing, Lord Stark,” answered Lord Stokeworth.  
  
 _Fled to Dragonstone is more like it._  
  
“My sister with them?” asked Ned  
  
Once again the gold cloaks did look at Ned with that odd look.  
  
“I am sorry to report that I have never had the opportunity to become… acquainted with the Lady Lyanna,” answered Lord Stokeworth cautiously.  
  
 _Lya isn’t here? Gods… had she ever been? Mayhaps though there were a hint in the parts of the Red Keep as to where she was. Or mayhaps she had been kept hidden from everyone. Yes. That had to be it._  
  
Ned was silent the rest of the way as they entered the city. All along his path he could not help but notice smallfolk gave proper respect to Robert—as two of Lord Stokeworth’s guards had run ahead to announce the arrival of the new King. However whene’er Ned himself looked upon the smallfolk, many averted their eyes—as though afraid to look him in the eyes.  
  
As they drew closer to the Red Keep, Ned saw that only one small section of the Keep was destroyed and left smoldering, the part which Robert called Maegor’s Holdfast—as it appeared to Ned it was a castle within a castle and the place where the King’s private compartments were located.  
  
Upon reaching the Red Keep, Ned’s first instinct was to search the dungeons. It was in the third level where the “Black Cells” were—that to his surprise he was reunited with a still living Ethan Glover, the young man who had been Brandon’s squire and friend.  
  
“Ned? Gods! Is this a dream, or are you truly here?” asked Ethan, as he shied away from the light of Ned’s torch. Ethan looked terrible, as though he had been thrown into the dungeons to rot and been forgotten. His usually clean-shaven face was covered in the untrimmed beginnings of a red beard. His clothes were soiled and wearing thin, and he looked unusually thinner than Ned last recalled seeing him at Harrenhal when he had had a bucket of water spilt over him by Brandon to wake him up from having drunk far too much at the feast.  
  
“Ethan! No, you dream not!” urged Ned, surprised and gracious to see a friendly face. Rumors had said that Brandon’s party had all been killed, but here was living proof that those rumors had been wrong. Were the others of Brandon’s party yet living? Kyle Royce, Jeffory Mallister, and Elbert Arryn… Elbert would be Lord of the Vale if he yet lived, much to Denys’ relief most likely.  
  
“I suppose it must be Lord Stark now, though…” commented Ethan bitterly, his disheveled long red hair falling down in front of his face.  
  
“Aye,” answered Ned, and once again he felt the pain of having lost his father and Brandon.  
  
Ethan was silent at this, and Ned knew what he was like to think—that it should be Brandon here instead of him, and Ned could not help but agree. Much to Ned’s surprise, Ethan then knelt before Ned.  
  
“I served your brother well as a squire, Lord Stark, and I will serve you equally as well,” spoke Ethan.  
  
 _Gods am I to inherit everything that had been Brandon’s?  
_  
“I have no need for a squire, Ethan, and you are old enough now to retire from the position and take up arms in your own right. If you so desire it I shall have you knighted as a barrowknight, as… Brandon would have done,” answered Ned, choking up as he spoke his late brother’s name.  
  
“You do me a great honor in offering so much, but I fear I have little noble deeds to my name to warrant a knighthood—even a barrowknighthood. I shall be content to simply be a warrior in service to you and your House, my lord.”  
  
 _And in honor of Brandon._ Even beyond the grave his late brother had the power to move men.  
  
“Come, let us get you a clean shirt and breeches,” urged Ned, and he helped Ethan to rise and they  
  
None of the others of Brandon’s party were left alive. All had been killed except for Ethan—he apparently had been left alive either due to the fact he had only been a squire, or because the Mad King had forgotten about him. Either had likely saved his life. Ethan confirmed that Lyanna had not been in King’s Landing when they had arrived, instead saying that both she and the Prince had been missing.  
  
That meant only one thing—that the Prince had not ridden out to meet the Dornish Army, but had arrived with them. Lyanna was still held further south, most likely in Dorne, but where in Dorne? Ned knew of only one person in all of Dorne who would likely tell him the truth—if she knew at all—but with the way they had parted from Harrenhal—the embarrassment of the memory drew upon him and made him blush once more, how much of a green boy he’d been then—would she help him? But Ned soon realized that she was the only person he could contact, and with time being of the essence before Mace Tyrell or Tywin Lannister decided that they might wish to marry their own sons to the still-living Rhaenys, he would have to be quick about sending his missive. He would write immediately to Ashara, and if she could not help him, the gods only knew how he would find Lya.  
  
He composed and sent his letter immediately after seeing that Ethan was taken to receive bath and a fresh pair of clothes by the few remaining servants who had stayed in the Keep.  
  
Over the next few days, as Ned awaited his response from Ashara, stock was taken of the city, and Robert was crowned in the Sept of Balor. After this ceremony, Ned was invited to join Robert, Denys, and Lord Stokeworth in the Small Council’s chamber. Upon his arrival Robert pulled him aside and asked him to be his Hand.  
  
Ned was firm in his decision, “It is an honor, your grace, but I fear I must refuse.”  
  
“What is this, Ned?” asked Robert.  
  
“How can I be your Hand and search for Lyanna?” asked Ned  
  
Robert seemed conflicted upon the mention of this, finally managing to say, “Sometimes Ned, we must put aside our personal desires to do what is best for the realm.”  
  
Ned countered, “Which is why I tell you now that I cannot be your Hand! I have responsibilities to the North which after I have found Lya I must fulfill. You’re our anointed King now, Robert, and you must rule. And you must deal with the Queen dowager and the Princesses on Dragonstone.”  
  
“That’s why I need a bloody Hand, so he can look after the city while I chase down those dragons!” growled Robert.  
  
And then an idea struck Ned.  
  
“Why not make my goodfather your Hand?” asked Ned.  
  
Robert nearly burst into laughter, “Are you daft, Ned?”  
  
“You have not sent the raven out to Riverrun yet, have you?” After having composed the letter informing Hoster and Lysa of Jon’s death they had had the misfortune to find that in the battle the maester’s ravens had been let loose on accident—all of them having flown to their trained destinations without a single one trained for Riverrun left. They had had to wait on the letter until they took King’s Landing, and likely in all the commotion Robert had forgotten to send the letter he hoped.  
  
Robert shook his head, answering his question, and confirming Ned’s suspicions.  
  
“Think of it, Robert. I cannot be your Hand as I shall be needed in the North far too much to be an effective Hand to you—especially if the wildlings gather and push against the wall as they like to do every so many years. If Brandon had lived I would have gladly taken your position as Hand, but unfortunately I am needed elsewhere. You said you had doubts that Lord Tully would keep his allegiance if he heard of Jon’s death, well what could more satiate that fear of yours than the offer of being Hand of the King in addition to that betrothal you’ve forced upon poor Denys? Not that there should be any worry left to that fear now, your grace.”  
  
“Gods… you’re right, Ned. But I will still want you on my small council in some capacity. We’ve fought this war together, we’ve lost just as much together, we ought to rule together,” blustered Robert.  
  
Ned groaned—he knew once Robert had made his mind up on something that there was no changing it. It was best to just agree now and hammer out any details later, after Lya was found.  
  
“Give me any position you like that gives me leave to only travel here once or twice a year, and I will take it,” grumbled Ned. He would agree to this for now, if only to keep from delaying matters further. He had to ready himself and his party to find Lya. Later, when Lya was safe and the war ended, he would take the matter up again with Robert.  
  
“Good, then as Commander of Arms and Men, my first task I ask of you is to ride to Storm’s End and relieve the siege there and to find my future queen,” suggested Robert with an odd smile.  
  
“Commander of Arms and Men?” asked Ned, that was not a position traditional of the seven spots of the Small Council.  
  
Robert grinned, and Ned could tell he was making up the position on the spot, but Ned cared not—he would not be Hand, “A new position for a new dynasty. You’ve proven yourself a commendable leader of men in battle and strategist, have you not, Ned? I’d have you in times of war in charge of gathering and organizing our armies, securing supply lines, etc. In times of peace you would ensure the training of men and knights across the realm, so that all men are capable of fighting should the need arise. I of course will still be leading these armies in battle, but you would be in charge of the strategy of these battles. Come now, don’t give me that face, Ned. You must admit you’re so overqualified for the position, that you won’t be needed in King’s Landing more than once or twice a year. Why I’ve heard some of the gold cloaks call you ‘the bloody wolf’.”  
  
 _The Bloody Wolf?!_ At Harrenhal he’d heard whispers of him being called the Quiet Wolf, but now only after two battles he had been given such a name as that?! But then Ned thought to the carnage of both Stoney Sept and the Kingswood. Gods, he was a bloody wolf, and that was why they avoided him so. And if King’s Landing had heard of this, the news would only spread from here. By the time he reached Dorne they would likely have heard of his new won reputation. He would need more than simply a small party of select men if he intended to ride any further south.  
  
“I accept, your grace,” said Ned in a stunned manner.  
  
Robert then began speaking with him and Denys about his plans to siege Dragonstone and capture the last dragons.  
  
Ned cautioned him to try treating first with them, offering them security at court—he did not want to have any more bloodshed on his hands.  
  
Denys suggested going further and perhaps offering the seat of Dragonstone to young Rhaenys as her birthright and separating it from administering the Crownlands entirely, making her instead simply the Lady of the Narrow Sea and giving the few houses from the islands as her bannermen.  
  
Ned agreed with Denys, adding, “Offer the child, the Princess, and the Queen protection and further war with Dorne could be spared.”  
  
 _And Lyanna will likely be safe until I reach her_.  
  
Ned himself would treat with Lord Tyrell, so that more bloodshed could be avoided.  
  
Robert seemed to dislike these plans—saying that after what Aerys did all dragons deserved was death, but Denys and Ned advised him that the crown was his by inheritance as well as by conquest—being the next legitimate male heir of the Targaryens through his grandmother’s blood. His claim would only further stabilize his throne if he were to take the last living relatives of the last dynasty into his own household and under his own protection—mayhaps even arranging that his own heir should marry Rhaenys when he would be born.  
  
“Are you sure you refuse to be my Hand, Ned? You’ve already counseled me much as a Hand would,” mumbled Robert after they had finally managed to convince him to agree to be good to Rhaella, Elia, and Rhaenys.  
  
“Only in the place of my goodfather, and as Denys will I am sure when I travel to meet with Lord Tyrell,” countered Ned. The sun, which had been high in the sky when they had gathered to meet, was now close to setting and the evening meal was soon to begin.  
  
Later that evening the letter for which he had been waiting arrived. In it there contained but a few brief lines—as though it had been written in haste and secret. Ashara congratulated him on his marriage to Catelyn and wished them much joy in their future together and expressed her regrets at the loss of Brandon and his father and in their memory and in honor of the night that they themselves had shared together she did tell him of what she had heard regarding Lyanna’s whereabouts from her brother who was part of a group of three Kingsguard keeping watch over her at the Tower of Joy, just north of Starfell.  
  
In the morning Ned set out down the Kingsroad with all his Northern men. He would treat first with Lord Tyrell, ending the siege and then ride with twenty men or so for the Tower of Joy.


	13. Barristan

**BARRISTAN**

 

After installing themselves in Dragonstone and calling for the minor houses of the narrow sea to come gather for their own protection—though they would at earliest arrive in a few weeks’ time—Barristan took stock of their position. Rumors of Rhaegar’s brutal murder upon the battlefield were confirmed by the Spider, and Barritan then knew that all the male heirs of the Targaryen dynasty were dead. This left Robert the rebel the rightful king by inheritance as well as through conquest.

 

That is until Lord Varys had shared with them his story of how he had secured the life of young Prince Aegon. _He is alive in Starfall!_ If they could reach the castle in time, they would be able to bring him by ship back to Dragonstone and then relocate the family to Essos, where they could train the young Prince until he was of age to take back his rightful throne from the rebel stag.

 

The Queen and the Princess however held different ideas when they spoke in quiet conference. They had taken the their two remaining Kingsguard and Ser Willem to a secret room deep beneath the castle where they suspected to be out of earshot of any spies.

 

When their tale and suspicions had been finished being told, Ser Barristan was left in shock, as was Ser Willem—the only one to express the shock that was felt was of course the youngest member of the Kingsguard.

 

“What do you mean that the babe cannot possibly be Aegon? How can you be sure without ever having seen the babe?” demanded Ser Jaime—nearly shouting as he did.

 

“A mother knows her child, and I can guarantee that the babe I had up until the late King took him from my arms was the son I gave birth to. He had to be that or Varys found such a perfect twin down to only the tiny details a mother would notice.”

 

“Why would Lord Varys want to pass off another child as the young prince?” asked Ser Willem with marked caution—the wheels of his mind obviously turning.

 

“I know not, but likely for his own purposes which are likely impossible to know. He comes from Essos, he should have little thoughts towards the Iron Throne,” muttered Elia with some exasperation.

 

“And yet he seems to have taken a particular interest,” reminded Barristan.

 

“My lady, have you considered that the tale of this babe in Starfall might be a ruse to separate us from your protection? All this time he might have been working for the Stag—isn’t it mighty convenient that everything has so easily lined up for Robert’s succession to be legitimate.”

 

“Oh, I doubt not that Varys indeed has a babe hidden with Lady Ashara and that he has told her that it is Aegon—and being not a mother herself… yet… she was easily taken in by the deception. I simply doubt that it is my son. As for how things have turned out for the King… who among us could have foreseen how the late King would have responded to the news from Stoney Sept?”

 

“That bloody demon, King?” scoffed Jaime.

 

“He is the rightful King now—as much as we all hate to admit it. By all the laws of inheritance as written since the days of the Dance, the Demon of the Woods is lawful King,” spoke the Queen, still quite weak from her recovery, but she spoke with an authority that Ser Barristan had not seen in her for many years—not since before her unfortunate marriage to Aerys.

 

Elia added, “And raising a pretender babe in the name of my son would be nothing but an exercise in pure folly, not to mention a desecration to my son’s true name.”

 

The Queen continued, saying, “The Princess and I are tired of war and death, good Sers, and would have peace if we can manage it. The Stag has won his crown—let him keep it. It has brought nothing but trouble to me and my family.”

 

“Then we should not go to Starfall?” asked Ser Jaime, looking quite confused as to what they would bid them do. Barristan felt much the same as the youth, though he did his best to hide it behind the cool exterior of solemnity.

 

“No, now more than ever Ser Barristan and Ser Darry must go to Starfall and get the babe that Lord Varys would have everyone think is my grandson,” concluded the Queen, she shared a look with Elia that only the two seemed to understand after saying as much.

 

“Am I not to go?” asked Ser Jaime.

 

“You were the one who showed concern for our lives with the Eunuch around, why not put that concern to good use in ensuring us our lives, good Ser,” finished the Queen.

 

“Ser Barristan, Ser Willem, if we nip this plot in the bud then peace will likely continue to reign long after we dip our banners to the King when he inevitably comes,” elaborated Elia.

 

Ser Barristan did not know what to believe about the babe—though he did agree with the Princess now that he had a moment to think on it that seemed rather odd that at such an early date that the Prince’s life would be considered in such danger that a switch of such proportions would be made. Outright war had not yet broken out—why would the Master of Whispers see fit to send the second in line to the throne away in such a manner when little threat as of yet existed?

 

And besides, going to Starfall would give him opportunity to see the Lady Ashara once again. If only he had won that tournament and crowned her—then this entire war could have been prevented.


	14. Tywin II

**TYWIN**  
  
His gathering army had finally collected itself at Deep Den, prepared on a moment’s notice of hearing the combined Tyrells marching north to hurry east on the Gold Road and come in and save Robert Baratheon and his Northern alliance, thus securing his own spot in the future council to come. But just as the forces from the Crag had finally arrived, news from King’s Landing reached Tywin’s ears of the defeat of the Army of Dorne by the “Bloody Wolf”, the death of Prince Rhaegar at the hands of the “Demon of the Woods”, the deaths of Aerys, Viserys, and young Prince Aegon in an incident that recalled Aerion Brightflame’s demise in Essos, and the crowning of King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name by the abandoned people of King’s Landing. Before he had marched, the rebellion was all but finished, with Robert now not only King by conquest but thanks to the actions of Aerys, the legitimate heir to the throne as well.  
  
This put Tywin in a position he had never taken as a possibility: that he would be too late. Now the task of crowning Cersei would be nigh impossible. Seven damn Aerys to the deepest of all the Seven Hells for ruining my plans!  
  
There was but one thing to do now, ride and swear fealty to this “Demon of the Woods” as he was being called. Mayhaps he’d find something to take advantage of—he could offer his services as Hand to the King. He had proven himself a capable Hand to Aerys had he not—before he went mad of course. It would secure prestige and power for his family once again, and as Hand of the King he perhaps could advise the King to set aside the likely ruined Stark girl and consider Cersei as a bride.  
  
He arrived at the Lion Gate with his six chosen companions: Armory Lorch, Gregor Clegane, Roland Crakehall, Tybolt Hetherspoon, Harys Swyft, and his brother Kevan. He had left his army encamped at Deep Den—ready, in case they should indeed still be needed. They were permitted to enter the city and at once Tywin saw the still smoldering smoke coming from the Red Keep—which from a distance looked to be well intact except for Maegor’s Holdfast.  
  
He met with Lord Tully—the Hand of the King, Lord Denys Arryn—the Master of Laws, and the King to whom he swore his fealty, which was rewarded with an offer to become Master of Coin—added with a comment of how Lannisters in the past had proven themselves more than worthy and capable at the position. Tywin politely asked for some time to think on the offer. Truthfully Tywin had never felt so insulted in all his life. But he held back his feelings of resentment from showing—he had yet to do anything for this new King, he could not expect to be immediately given the golden ring he so deserved, not when he had missed his opportunity and sat out the war as a neutral party. And mayhaps Lord Tully would not live long.  
  
He inquired as to his son’s whereabouts and to his surprise found that he had fled with the Targaryen women to Dragonstone. Ah, Dragonstone—there still was a battle yet to fight—and it was there he could prove his loyalty. The only problem was that there weren’t any ships in King’s Landing to go to Dragonstone with his army. No matter, he could send his army to Lannisport, and in a few months’ time they could be storming Dragonstone for the King.  
  
But the most interesting bit of information came not from his discussion with the King and his small council, but instead from a rumor Lorch had heard while bedding a servant—that Lord Stark was set to travel to the Red Mountains of Dorne, having requested maps of the region before leaving to end Storm’s End.  
  
What was in the Red Mountains of Dorne? The place was a desolate region, hardly populated by any but the few noble Houses of stony Dornishmen that carved out a life amongst the red crags. However when Tywin continued to give the matter some thought he eventually came to the conclusion that Stark must have good reason to think his missing sister—and the betrothed of the King—was hidden away in the red mountains of Dorne. Looking at some of the maps of Western Dorne Tywin took note of the mention of abandoned keeps that were in the region: The Tower of Joy and the Vulture’s Roost being the most recently abandoned it seemed comparing maps from different monarch’s rule, and thus the most likely places for Rhaegar to have hidden the she-wolf, that is if the dragon prince had hidden her in the Red Mountains to begin with.  
  
Best to be safe than sorry, Tywin called for Clegane and Lorch and commanded them to ride south into Dorne and check the Vulture’s Roost and the Tower of Joy to see if they could find any she-wolves that needed to be taken care of before they sunk their teeth in too deeply into the Stag.  
  
“You must not go in Lannister colors, nor your own family sigils. I would not have this tied back to my family or the Westerlands in any way,” commanded Tywin.  
  
“How do you want us to travel then, just in our fucking armor?” asked Lorch  
  
“I’m not asking for much,” said Tywin dryly.  
  
Clegane asked as he bit into an apple, “And if she’s not in either place?”  
  
Tywin knew what he wanted from them immediately, “Then return to King’s Landing with all speed. I’ll have need of you on Dragonstone.”  
  
Tywin would take that position as Master of Coin—it wasn’t Hand of the King, but he could most certainly take that position in time. His hesitancy to act had cost his family much—he would not make the same mistake twice. Lannister blood would rule one day over all the Seven Kingdoms—as was only right.


	15. Catelyn

**CATELYN**  
  
Although the rumors had arrived in Riverrun before they had left for the capital, Catelyn had not given them much thought. After all to hear that a battle was “mercilessly fought” with “nary a soul to survive” was common enough. She’d heard as much after Ashford, and yet Robert had somehow managed to rise from the dead and give battle at Stoney Sept. But to now be within less than a day’s ride of what was the most recent battlefield—where the King’s Road and immediate environs were nearly dyed red with blood—Catelyn began to wonder if the rumors she had heard while safely ensconced away in Riverrun had been telling less than the complete truth. The stench of burnt rotting bodies permeated the air still—as more bodies were still being found amongst the overgrowth surrounding the woods, even now after several weeks had passed since the battle. Catelyn supposed it could have been worse, the capital could have been sieged and the blood dye and stench of rotten flesh could have permeated its streets instead. Instead they simple stank of unwashed bodies in too close a proximity together. Which when compared to that of burnt rotting flesh smelled rather sweet, to be honest.  
  
But now, seeing and smelling the aftermath of the latest battle, Catelyn would have to accept what she had so easily dismissed in Riverrun: she had married “the Bloody Wolf” whose rage and grief at the loss of his family and foster father was so great that he would level the entirety of the six other kingdoms if he could not find his missing sister she-wolf. Or at least so was whispered amongst the servants and smallfolk. Such brutality was so unheard of that some thought that the old gods as practiced in the North must involve blood sacrifices to their weirwood gods in recompense for actions committed on earth.  
  
To Catelyn such talk ran contrary to the quiet, polite, and nearly shy man she recalled having to nearly give permission to take what was already his in the sight of the Seven. During their brief courtship he had kept a nearly cold and respectable distance, far colder than his hot-blooded elder brother had had with her—though she had been nothing but a lady with him, of that she had been quite insistent. But with her lord husband, she had had to be the pursuer on the wedding night as he had awkwardly and nervously been coaxed into doing the deed. He had admitted to her outright that he had only “done this once before” and apologized quite frequently for any deficiency on his part to her pleasure. Had she simply given up after the first round she would have thought that she was destined to have naught but a lonely bed in the North. But after having taken her maidenhood, she desired to see if the experience might afford some pleasure as she had heard Brandon speak of when he had spoke quite naughtily to her when they had had their few brief moments alone during their courtship. And besides how could she bear her lord an heir if she had not released her own seed as the maesters spoke of being necessary? Needless to say, the first and even the second time they had managed to stumble through the motions, but the third… well the third time had given promise that such unions could hold some amount of pleasure, and obviously had done the trick as she now was with child and beginning to show it quite well.  
  
Could such a man as that then go on to coldly and ruthlessly slaughter to the point where the land around the Stoney Sept had become a large lichfield and the trees of the King’s Wood were painted red with blood? Catelyn could not comprehend them being the same man, not at all, and yet the evidence spoke loudly to the contrary. What was undeniable was the carnage still left behind and for the moment she prayed that the young life growing inside of her would not be as… driven if war should come in his time. She was sure it would be a boy. She knew not how she knew, but she knew it would. She had been praying of course to the Mother and the old gods to grant her a son just like her lord husband—as she thought would please him. But now she did not mind if the little life inside of her was not completely like Lord Stark—Eddard. She must remember to think of him as Eddard.  
  
Catelyn was joined in her devotions by her sister who prayed to the Stranger not out of any true remorse for the loss of her husband but with a mixture of gratitude and brow beating from Catelyn herself. Frequently when alone in her sister’s presence Catelyn found herself having to remind and scold Lysa as though she had not yet blossomed as a woman grown yet—though that of course had occurred many years prior. In public at least, Lysa found the role of the “honorable widow Lady Arryn” to afford her some sort of prestige in King’s Landing, and she was sure then to put on a decent mummer’s show of grief: becoming the most teary-eyed and woebegone of any widow of the recent war in the Seven Kingdoms. Truly, Catelyn found the playacting far worse to bear than her sister’s true callousness. At least her callousness was genuine and not overplayed to garner… improper attentions. Father had not yet suspected anything on Lysa’s part, and Catelyn believed her to have interfered before anything truly wrong had occurred, but Catelyn now devoted herself to keeping a watch on her sister—even in the company of the new Lord Denys Arryn—whom Catelyn had noticed had caught the eye of her sister in a way her former husband had not. Lysa for her part defended her actions as that she was but a young widow, and that grieving for very long over such an old man as like to die as Lord Jon had been, would lose her the best years of her bloom and youth if she carried on in perpetual mourning, to the point where her bloom would completely faded.  
  
Edmure unfortunately had been left in Riverrun with Uncle Brynden—he had been so looking forward to the war continuing and the possibility of becoming a squire to some knight—now with the crowning of King Robert, unlikely to last much longer to afford Edmure such an opportunity. Personally Catelyn was glad for her little brother’s sake. Father had been talking that if the war had lasted another year or so of possibly sending him to squire for her husband—which Catelyn of course now had rather strong opinions of. Edmure was but a boy of nine namedays—he should not have to see such sights as the Kingswood until he was much older and likely better to handle it better, if there ever was such an age that one could handle such sights. Would Lord—Eddard return the same man? She could not let such thoughts bother her. No.  
  
Father had been quite surprised to receive a letter from the King requesting that he be made Hand of the King, though he suspected it was only due to the fact that Lysa’s dear late husband—who had been like a father to the King, or so she’d heard—was dead. Mayhaps the King was in need of father figures, having lost not only his own but his substitute father. Mayhaps that is what all men need in dark times such as war. Catelyn hoped that her own son’s father would come back just as much the man he had been when they had made him together. Father of course accepted the position of Hand, and had brought both his daughters to King’s Landing as soon as Uncle Brynden could be installed as castellan of Riverrun—he had been wounded as Stoney Sept and stayed behind to see to the clean up after the battle. What came as the most shocking part was when Catelyn had heard, from talking with Denys Arryn—she had meant to convey her sympathy at his recent losses—that it had been her lord husband who had made the suggestion in the first place. What was Catelyn to make of Lord—Eddard now? She knew not.   
  
Father for himself seemed to be well adept for the position of Hand, agreeing with Lord Denys’ suggestion that as Head of the remaining Targaryen family he should reach out to the remaining women of the line and offer them protection and titles befitting their status. It would better secure his throne and keep away those who would use the Queen Dowager and the Princesses for their own misdeeds. Father of course emphasized that not only such a suggestion was right to do for family, but also was his duty and the honorable choice. All in all, her family had prospered much from the alliance with the Tullys—much more so than any other house, which made Catelyn nervous. The gods do often raise up those they intend to have fall, and Catelyn made sure that she remained ever humble in response. She could not rely on her husband to forever be “the Bloody Wolf”, some day he would grow old and die, and her son would be left to take his place—however uneasy she felt about that.


	16. Mace

**MACE**  
  
When the single wily old Dornishman who had managed to escape with his life from the Battle of the Kingswood had told Mace of the “bloodiest battle he’d e’er seen” in all his fifty years of fighting—old enough to have fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings of Mace’s childhood—Mace Tyrell had begun to worry. Before leaving Highgarden his mother, the dowager Lady Tyrell, had cautioned him against riding out himself—saying he was a “great fool of an oaf” if he did so. She suggested leaving the fighting to Tarly—he may not know how to appreciate the finer things of life, but a good military campaign he did.  
  
 _“Let him go and get himself killed fighting for our mad dragon of a King. He has not his heirs still in the nursery,”_ she had said.  
  
But that was precisely why Mace felt he had to fight. Mother worried that if he died he’d leave the Tyrells in a position to be challenged by the Florents and Tarlys for the Lord Paramountcy. But if he as Warden of the South as well as Lord Paramount of the Reach did not go and fight then whichever one of those who had might return from the war ready to challenge the Tyrells once again with an army at their back—especially if it were Tarly. Despite his closed mouth exterior, Mace knew much more than he allowed his mother to believe.  
  
Long ago he’d learned that Mother had favored his sisters, Mina and Janna, more than he—no matter what he said. She always doted on them more, spoiled them more, showered attention on them, complimented them, supported them, she did everything for them, while he had simply learned to shut his mouth and keep his opinions to himself around her. Father had truly been a fat oaf who’d cared more for wine and hawking than he had his children—which is why when Father had ridden off that cliff, Mace had barely noticed his departure from the family. But mother had always favored the girls of the family—excepting his own wife of course, because anything he did was wrong. His heir Willas seemed to be the exception to everything with her. His son, whom Mace considered to be very like himself in mind and spirit—though without the curse of his father’s oafish countenance—was doted, loved, and encouraged, whereas Mace had been constantly critiqued and brow beaten, even into his majority. He had never been good enough for his mother, and she had henpecked him into a living statue because of it. The only comfort Mace had ever found was in food. And the older he got the more reasons he found to take comfort in it.  
  
Despite appearances to the contrary at times, he had always taken his mother’s advice into consideration, she was after all the most intelligent woman in all of Westeros—he just never took it in the way she expected him to. He knew damn well he was not made for fighting—he didn’t need her to remind him of that, every time as a child he’d made some accomplishment she had instead tutted that some part of his form was off compared to that of his uncle’s or cousins’. In his youth he had had the potential, but also the need for comfort. Comfort had of course won out, but for a while there he had been stuck at a crossroads, like he saw his second son Garlan approaching—he too could go either way.  
  
 _Seven help the boy as he grows older, may Mother not ruin him like she ruined me._  
  
However what Mace knew he could do for his family was to secure it so that no matter which side won this war or rebellion—whichever it was called in the end—that House Tyrell would remain as they were: Lord Paramounts of the Reach and Wardens of the South. He could maintain the status quo—and if a new dynasty happened to arise, he could leave an impression of strength by showing “how he could have destroyed the rebellion, had he wanted to”, more than he could marching his men halfway around the Seven Kingdoms and back. Thus, when the time came for the new dynasty to choose a house to marry into, all he needed to do was produce one daughter, just one. Seven help him he never knew how much trouble it was to get a girl—not that he did not love his boys any less, but they could not marry a potential future heir to the throne. Thankfully Alerie reported that the Mother had seen fit to bless them with yet another child, and she now was in constant prayer to both her and the Maiden for a daughter.  
  
But all of these plans would be in jeopardy if he were found still laying siege to the new king’s original seat of power after he had taken power. But was he the king, yet? He had won the battle of the Kingswood—but he could still be laying siege to King’s Landing—it was a tricky path to take, and Mace had had his fun here as well—part of showing strength to the few stags who did still reside in Storm’s End was his ability to feed himself and his men—each day he laid out luxurious feasts—well luxurious in comparison to what was likely being served inside of Storm’s End, he imagined—and reveled in that simple but effective display of power. And of course no feast would be complete without singers. People mocked his House’s words—even his mother did—but what they all forgot was that without the growth of a plant, there would be very little to eat, and everyone would be like the young stags currently in Storm’s End—staring out with their gaunt faces and hungry eyes. On some level he pitied them—mostly the youngest lad, who was likely about Garlan’s age he guessed—but the boys needed to learn this lesson the hard way—supplies were as much a part of war as swordplay and strategy.  
  
Which is why when the supply lines from the Reach coming up the Roseroad and down the Kingsroad stopped, Mace had panicked. It meant of course that Paxter Redwyne would have to spare some of his fleet to bring the supplies around Dorne and that they would have to be go on half rations—but something had changed to the north—they were no longer in easy connection to the Roseroad—something was blocking the path or had scared the men off.  
  
Then the whispers of “the Bloody Wolf” had arrived, along with the descriptions of the “Blood Cross” as the intersection between the Roseroad and Kingsroad was being called. No rumors of King’s Landing or any place farther north reached them—they were entirely cut off from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. The rumors told of how the crossroads were permanently painted red with blood and bodies piled up upon the road above the treetops. Twenty-thousand Dornish spearmen had met their death at his fangs. Some even said that the Bloody Wolf was his vicious ancestor Theon “the Hungry Wolf” Stark reborn, the Stark who featured in the tales of the few houses of the Reach who still claimed some distant kinship to the First Men of old—as he learned from his men—supposedly had kept the North in a constant state of warfare. As with all problems Mace faced he found comfort once again in food—he then took a break for prayer—then found his comfort once again.  
  
And what was the worst news of all was that the Bloody Wolf was rumored to be coming straight for Storm's End.  
  
  
 _Seven help me through this trial._  
  
Once learning this news Mace began to find it hard to sleep, and much harder to eat—the food tasted stale and paltry now and provided little nourishment and comfort to him. He paced much about his tent—the war was coming for him, and the wolf would snap his jaws about his neck and find much flesh to feast upon. Mace found he could not think of anything but the bloodshed to come that he grew to be such a wreck with each passing day that it finally came down to Randyll Tarly to break him from his state of hysteria.  
  
“Allow me to go, my _lord_ , and test this reputation. I have experience defeating these rebels—they are a motley crew, and poor excuse for an army. I guarantee ten to one that the Northerner has simply gotten lucky. He and his backwoods barbarians have had the element of surprise at their disposal. They fight in boiled leather and call that armor—some even say they still cling to their bronze weapons as well. They have not yet fought a properly trained force of men. I shall take only five hundred of the best of my fighting force and bloody this ‘Bloody Wolf’ for you—so that of course _your_ forces shall easily vanquish his for our dragon King,” proposed the balding man, who in his armor appeared complete in his grim war-like visage. They were such moving words that near helplessly, Mace agreed to let Lord Tarly go and meet the Bloody Wolf in battle.  
  
He never heard from Lord Tarly, again. Instead words of the approaching maelstrom of the angered “Bloody Wolf” who had taken the capital for the “Demon of the Woods” and rode with pike that had Lord Tarly’s head on it reached his ears.  
  
What pushed Mace Tyrell over the edge into deciding to end the siege was when one of his singers began to compose a song his men quickly began to call the “Wolves of Winterfell”, Mace had had enough. He packed up the last of the rations he could spare, left them at the gates for the hungry stag boys and took the remainder of his army, boarded his ships and sailed back for Highgarden. He would not be like the fool Tarly and stay to meet the Bloody Wolf. Unfortunately it meant he had to listen all the way round Dorne and back to Highgarden to the Wolves of Winterfell.  
  
 _They came south one spring, the wolves of Winterfell,_  
 _They came south of the Neck, but four wolves in all,_  
 _They came south to the God’s Eye, for a tournament, I tell,_  
 _And when they stayed in the south the dragons did fall._  
  
 _They came south one spring, the wolves of Winterfell,_  
 _They came south of the Neck, with a she-wolf so fair,_  
 _She came south to Harrenhal, for a dragon’s heart, I tell,_  
 _And when she stayed in the south she earned a blue rose so rare._  
  
 _They came south one spring, the wolves of Winterfell,_  
 _They came south of the Neck, when the she-wolf was wronged,_  
 _They came south to the capital, for a dragon’s head, I tell,_  
 _And when they stayed in the south two wolf’s heads were gone._  
  
 _He came south one spring, the wolf of Winterfell,_  
 _He came south of the Neck, to avenge the pack,_  
 _He came south to the Sept, for the Battle of the Bell,_  
 _And when he stayed in the south he led a bloody attack._  
  
 _He came south one spring, the wolf of Winterfell,_  
 _He came south of the Neck, to crown the Stag’s head,_  
 _He came south to the Crownlands, to the Kingswood, I tell,_  
 _And when he stayed in the south the Dornish were fled._  
  
 _He came south one spring, the wolf of Winterfell,_  
 _He came south of the Neck, to fight for the Falcon’s head,_  
 _He came south to the Red Keep, to kill the dragons, I tell,_  
 _And when he stayed in the south the dragons died o’fear instead._  
  
 _He came south one spring, the wolf of Winterfell,_  
 _He came south of the Neck, for the she-wolf, his pack,_  
 _He came south of the Woods, to meet the red huntsman, I tell,_  
 _And when he stayed in the south the huntsman lay dead ‘pon a stack._  
  
 _So when the Bloody Wolf rides south for an attack,_  
 _Ne’er be between a wolf and his pack._


	17. Barristan II

**BARRISTAN**  
  
Barristan regretted taking sail with Ser Willem. The man was quite old—old enough to be his father, a young father, but a father none the less. In a lot of ways he did remind Barristan of his father, Lyonel, who in truth had only been but a few years older than Darry. In fact the more time he was forced to spend with the man trapped on this ship, the more Barristan realized that he seemed to inhabit every irritating habit people his father’s age inhabited that had driven Barristan half mad as a youth.   
  
Ser Willem could never be still, he always had to be moving and doing something, and if he could not be doing something he had to be thinking of something. There was never a moment’s rest with Ser Willem, constantly on the go. And if he had anything at hand he would fiddle with the contraption with his hands absent-mindedly , eventually succumbing to his desires to take the object apart to see how it worked and if he could put it back together better than it had been made. Had Ser Willem had the fortune of being born to a merchant or even a smallfolk, he might have found use for this irritable habit by being employed in some trade or other, but as it was, he had been born a nobleman’s son—and thus had certain expectations thrust upon him which Ser Willem apparently had never seen fit to question—not that Barristan questioned the expectations he’d been raised with either, well except in moments when pushed too far. There were certain limits he would go to, and no further. With Ser Willem there seemed to be no limits whatsoever, he could take as much as you pushed onto him and keep going on his merry way as though it were simply the tasks one would perform every day. Mayhaps that was why he had lasted for so long and been considered a good Master at Arms for the Red Keep under Aerys—his ability to take orders without question and think very little on them. Barristan quickly came to understand that like his father, Ser Willem saw the world very simply in matters of black and red. Either something was or wasn’t, there was hardly and room in between these two extremes, and while on points of Honor, Barristan agreed with Ser Willem whole-heartedly, on other matters this simplistic world view proved troublesome.  
  
No more than now as Ser Willem tried to figure out the mechanics behind Varys’ actions. As though the Eunuch were but another mechanical invention for him to fiddle with and take apart. Ser Willem would not be so grating, if he kept these thoughts to himself, or tried puzzling in silence, but again that constant need for action kicked in. For some reason he seemed to feel that he worked out these problems best when in conversation with someone, and considering Barristan were the only one who knew of these problems, that meant that Ser Willem was always trying to track down Barristan to talk out the mechanics of the problem with him.  
  
Which is why Barristan upon being interrupted for the third time in one day by Ser Willem’s need to “talk through” his concerns over the babe that Varys had secured and they were traveling for, Barristan had had enough. This day he had approached the problem while they were walking upon the deck from the point that the Princess might have been mistaken in knowing her own son, as to him it seemed near all babes looked much like one another. He spoke of them as if they were replaceable cogs in some gigantic clock tower.  
  
“Ser Willem, I doubt not that the Princess says what she believes to be the truth, but the matter is hardly ever that simple. The truth for one person is a misconception to another. Regardless of whether the babe truly is Aegon, what matters is that those around him believe him to be Aegon—and that is a dangerous mix indeed,” stated Barristan  
  
“But the truth, Ser Barristan, is that simple. The babe either is or isn’t the infant Prince, and if he isn’t then who could he truly be, and why would the Eunuch spend so much time over an imposter? Finding the truth of the matter will shed light upon what dangers—if any—that the Eunuch may hold in his hands,” offered Ser Willem as he fiddled with some strange looking object that had been left about the deck, which Barristan held little interest in. He found the random clicks and whirrs which came from Ser Willem’s absent-minded disassembly of the object to be irksome.  
  
Barristan leaned onto the gunwale of the ship and sighed, “A babe with Targaryen looks is not that uncommon a sight on Dragonstone, nor that difficult to procure for a man of many connections as the Eunuch. There are centuries of dragonseed to populate near half the island.”  
  
“But that would not explain why our Essosi Spider would want to put one on the throne,” refuted Ser Willem.  
  
Barristan shook his head, “Whate’er his reasons are, I am sure they made sense to the late King who likely ordered them if the babe truly is Aegon. You cannot forget that nearly everything that Eunuch did was upon the orders of the late King.”  
  
At this Ser Willem paused, the object in his hands snapping apart into two smaller pieces before continuing, “I have been considering how our Eunuch did come to Westeros, true the late King did invite him, but how awfully convenient that a man skilled in the art of secrets just so happens to become well known when Aerys has need for such a man. In all honesty, as an Essosi, he should care very little who sits upon the Iron Throne.”  
  
“Does he truly care? You’re making quite the assumption doing so,” Barristan scoffed.  
  
Ser Willem smirked before giving his reply, “His actions say he cares a tremendous deal—do you not see them? After all, why would he go to all the trouble of sneaking an infant heir to the Iron Throne out of the Red Keep?”  
  
Barristan paused for a moment before speaking—he could not admit that he wasn’t concerned about the actions of the Eunuch. “That I’ll admit has bothered me, but what truly struck me was the question of why he would whisk Aegon away like that at all during those early days—the Rebellion had not begun after all. It was simply a minor squabble between the Royal family and the Starks.” One for which Rhaegar wasn’t wholly blameless.  
  
Ser Willem nodded his head before speaking, “I had not considered that, but you’re quite right. And as for his Essosi connections, the only family in Essos that I could possibly think of caring who sat upon the Iron Throne…” and Ser Willem stopped—for the first time since having gotten on to the boat he had stopped dead in his tracks and silence stood between them.  
  
That silence permeated everything—the object in Ser Willem’s hands was not being fumbled with. The only place that silence did not exist of course was in Barristan’s head—which without another thing having to be said he replied, “Impossible, I killed the last of that damnable line myself.”  
  
“The last of the _male_ line as I do recall. He could very well have had a daughter, or a sister, or even an aunt who upon his death carried on the family cause,” countered Ser Willem.  
  
Ser Barristan knew the inheritance laws to the Iron Throne plain as every other noble, “Then they wouldn’t be a Blackfyre, thus being unable to claim the throne. The lines of the legitimate women would come before the lines of the bastard women.”  
  
“But that would not stop them from attempting to find a way to make a switch if perchance they happened to produce a child with Targaryen features about the same age as the Prince,” suggested Ser Willem.  
  
“That’s an awful lot of chances to take to put one of their own on the throne, too many places where it could have gone wrong,” countered Barristan  
  
Ser Willem then appearing triumphant as if he had solved the problem entirely, “What if switching the babes wasn’t their original plan to begin with, but instead it simply was to push the late King further into his madness, by playing up his worries about his kingdom and son—at the very least toppling the Targaryen dynasty while they waited to groom some Black Dragon prince in the wings to come swooping in while the Seven Kingdoms drove themselves into utter chaos and destruction tearing themselves apart with the fall of the Targaryens. But then when the opportunity arose to make the switch—it was made. After all, that would be a much easier way to put a Blackfyre on the throne.”  
  
The object in Ser Willem’s hands was not completely disassembled, but it was in many more pieces than it had been when they had started. It was then though their meeting was interrupted by the distant sound of thunder, and Barristan realized that on their course they had drifted too far into Shipbreaker’s Bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I'm exposing more of some of the decisions I made concerning fanon theories that I'd like to explore in this story.


	18. Denys III

  
**DENYS**  
  
Since the arrival of Hoster Tully, Denys had begun to feel as though the Old Trout were trying his damnedest to swim upstream of Robert’s furious river of emotions. Currently they were stalled at the cataract Targaryen.  
  
Though Robert had agreed to be _kind_ to his dragon cousins, by offering a place in his court for them, the one point he refused to be moved on was the future promise of marrying the not-quite three namedays Rhaenys to his future son and heir—should he be so blessed.  
  
“That would be letting Aerys’ blood back onto the throne!” protested Robert as they sat around the small council table discussing the matter in private.  
  
Hoster countered, “By the time it sits upon the throne it would be quite diluted by the blood of Baratheons, Starks, and Martells.”  
  
“Remember Harrenhal, Robert? Even you commented how the girl looked all her mother,” added Denys.  
  
Robert protested, “She still has half of _his_ blood in her. It would be a disgrace to all my she-wolf’s likely had to endure to force our future son to marry her!”  
  
Lord Tully then suggested, “He committed an act through which she was equally wronged by, was she not? How could Rhaenys help the actions of her father? How has she benefitted at all from her father’s… fascination with the Lady Lyanna? He betrayed his family as well as his honor when he abandoned them to the whims of the late mad King. She is just as much a victim of these circumstances as the Lady Lyanna and you are, as is her mother and grandmother. Why they have all but been stripped bare and tossed to your feet in chains.”  
  
“I know my house history well enough,” grumbled Robert darkly.  
  
“Then live up to the honor of its legacy! Let people say that you are Orys Baratheon reborn and wrap your cloak around our three Argellas,” urged Denys.  
  
“In truth you don’t even have to do as much as Orys Baratheon did. You aren’t the one marrying Rhaenys,” admitted Lord Tully.  
  
Robert’s face scrunched up before he then emphasized, “No, but Orys made the _choice_ to do so. And in so doing proved himself a great man. You both are asking me to take such a choice away from my son, even before he’s born.”  
  
“Would you rather some other lordling chose to marry Rhaenys and got a child ‘pon her who grew up to challenge your son’s throne?” asked Lord Tully  
  
Denys remembered how easy the boy who had first come to the Eyrie had been to outwit by building up his ego. Denys decided to use that against him for Robert’s own good, “Uniting the claims to the throne would ensure peace and tranquility in the realm for several generations to come. It would be the lasting legacy of your reign—minstrels would praise you as Robert the Great for centuries!”  
  
Robert grew very silent for a moment, before mumbling what sounded like, “Damn you, Jon…” to himself. He then sighed and growled, “Send a bloody raven to Dragonstone. I would have us meet to discuss these arrangements in person, preferably from a place of neutrality—like Driftmark.”  
  
“A wise decision, your grace,” admitted Lord Tully.  
  
“Yes, yes, fine. Send Lord Stokeworth in on your way out,” muttered Robert with a wave of his hand. Lord Tully and himself then rose and left, allowing Lord Stokeworth in to the small council chambers as they left them.  
  
After they had been walking for a bit together, Lord Tully asked of Denys, “How did you manage to get him to agree? There’s nothing you’ve said that I have not tried myself.”  
  
Denys thought for a moment before answering, “I’ve known our King for several years—his weakness is that he likes to be thought well of. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s always been eager to be seen well and accepted by others, but doing things that would actually make him well liked does not come naturally to him, and therein lies the rub. He has the desire to do good, but not the will to always follow through. He needs someone to hold him to such a course—or a group of people if one will not suffice.”  
  
“Hm. You are a wise man for your young years,” commented Hoster with a guarded sense of appreciation.  
  
Denys smirked before saying, “I have seen nearly five and twenty namedays, I should hope I’ve acquired something in all that time.”  
  
Lord Tully chuckled slightly as they came to a junction in the hall which split in two opposite ways—one to the Tower of the Hand and the other to the guest chambers and the rest of the castle. Just at that moment—conveniently enough—coming down the hall which led to the Tower of the Hand was one of Lord Tully’s beautiful red of hair daughters.  
  
Admittedly though Denys had been introduced to them and held conversations over meals with each, he had been avoiding the ladies outside of any other social interaction. As such he still had trouble distinguishing the Tully women apart. The only guide he had to help him at this point was that one was pregnant with Ned’s child while the other wasn’t. This one lacked the considerable bulge in her dress, so it must be Lysa, his new intended.  
  
Denys had two reasons as to why he avoided the company of Lady Lysa. First, he felt it would be improper to be around her under the guise of her new intended while she still grieved so for her late husband. Although he did wonder at her vivid display of grief she carried for a man who she had hardly known, while he considered the man to have been a father to him. The other reason of course was that while he spent time with Lady Lysa he was reminded that he was once again free to marry and that Annalys was truly lost to him forever. In some ways being with Lady Lysa felt as though he were dishonoring Annalys. It was far easier to just avoid all interactions entirely.  
  
Today however seemed to be the day his plan to avoid the Lady Lysa was doomed to failure as after greeting his daughter, Lord Tully quickly scampered off to the Tower of the Hand, leaving the two youths together. They were silent for the longest time, Denys stealing a few brief glimpses at Lysa and he suspected she, him.  
  
Finally, feeling that abandonment would be completely rude to the Lady, he suggested, “My lady, ‘tis a pleasant day outside, well enough for an afternoon stroll I would imagine.”  
  
Lysa gave a sweet smile, but then a sad look passed over her features, “I would be delighted to accompany you, Lord Arryn… but I am afraid that I was on my way to the Sept to pray to the Stranger for my husband’s immortal soul.”  
  
There was something about this seeming piety which bothered Denys. Mayhaps he simply wanted to discover the truth of the lady’s source of grief, or mayhaps the impulse to actually speak with her for once actually came through. Either way he offered his arm to her—surprising her as he then said, “Then I shall escort you, my Lady.”  
  
She sweetly responded as she took his arm and he led her down the hallway, “You are too kind, good Ser.”  
  
They had only taken a few steps when he spoke next, “I find your grief for your late husband to be quite touching, my Lady. You may not know this but I considered the man to have been a father to myself.”  
  
“Oh?” commented Lysa with little emotion.  
  
“Aye, I grew up in the Eyrie,” elaborated Denys.  
  
A short pause passed before Lysa added a paltry comment of her own, “Although I knew my lord husband for only a short while, he appeared to be a very… fatherly sort of man.”  
  
There was just something about the way she said that, echoing his own feelings without holding any of their sentimentality that bothered Denys. Jon deserved more than that. And so Denys set about setting that right with Jon’s widow, “‘Tis a shame he ne’er sired any children himself, for he would have been the most devoted of men to them, and there would have been no better role model in the virtues of honor, discretion, and wisdom. I can still remember the time when I had first come to the Eyrie. My father had said that there was no more money for me to remain at home with him and his bottles. I was to go and beg my way amongst my richer cousins while I left him to his love affair with wine. I had come to Lord Arryn hurt and upset, half-expecting to be treated with that kind of tolerance that one gives to those whom you don’t truly believe belong amongst your class. And I would be lying to say that there were times that I did not feel that. But they were never intended and as a rule Lord Arryn was nothing but kindness, never insisting that I learn anything that I wanted not to do. I had come to him expecting to be taught a skill to benefit his household, such as those that might befit a steward, but instead he raised me with his two younger wards as though I were the same. He saw that though I started late in life, I could to ride well, and he purchased a horse especially for my own use and encouraged me to ride the rings—from which I have managed to make a bit of a name for myself in the tourney circuit. He had his faults to be sure. He was distant with his emotions, never feeling at all comfortable sharing that side of himself except with those whom he trusted deeply. Some might have called him cold or reserved because of it. He held people to high standards—mayhaps with too high an expectation that they meet those standards, especially us boys that he had a hand in raising. But weigh everything out and I would say with candor that he was likely the best man to have lived in this past century.”  
  
“Indeed,” was the only thing the Lady Lysa could say this. He could feel how awkward she felt by how lifelessly her arm entwined with his, had become. The obvious farce of her outward appearance of grief that she played up for the public was now exposed for what it was in Denys’ eyes. But he would not let her suffer the public humiliation of knowing that he had found out the truth. After all, it was not her fault she had not had much opportunity to come to know Jon. He could wish she were but honest—that would be the honorable thing—but mayhaps she felt pressured to show more grief for the benefit of others than she truly felt. Denys knew not and he did not wish to speculate any further—such would not be gracious to the lady.  
  
And noticing that they had arrived outside of the Royal Sept, he said, “One day I hope to honor the example which he set, should the Seven wish it. Well, my lady, I do believe we have arrived at the Sept.”  
  
“Oh yes, we have,” said Lysa rather absent-mindedly, and he pulled her arm from his, gave a courteous bow and turned and began his departure. He had not gone very far when he heard her call out his title, upon which he turned.  
  
Lysa spoke haltingly as she said, “Before I continue with my devotions I would like to speak with you further about my late lord husband. As his cousin, you of course must be the best person to have known him.”  
  
Denys was pleasantly surprised. Mayhaps there was more to Lady Lysa than he had assumed from his discovery.  
  
“Your pleasure is my command, my lady,” Denys said gallantly, and he resumed his side by her. Speaking about Jon with someone who obviously was not as troubled by his loss as he was Denys found was oddly helpful—if anything it took his mind off of Annalys and Jasper. They continued to converse as they left the Red Keep, touring the gardens in the late afternoon air, speaking about Jon and in a roundabout manner, Denys’ adolescence. Lady Lysa listened with true interest this time, and Denys could not help but see that she were slowly coming to see Jon the way he had, and that satisfied him.


	19. Gregor

**GREGOR**

 

After riding near night and day, they’d finally arrived at the Vulture’s Roost, a decaying old castle—a common feature of the Red Mountains—which sat on the River Wyl. In the days before Myriah Martell had married Daeron II, being right on the border between the Stormlands and Dorne, the Vulture’s Roost had been an important castle to maintain and keep for the defense of Dorne as it guarded the port of Wyl at the mouth of the river from armies seeking to use the river to sail down and capture it—not to mention blocking the pass which it was settled at the edge of. But since the unification, Vulture’s Roost had since fallen into complete disrepair, being naught but a shadow of its former self—or at least it seemed that way to Gregor. To him, it looked as if one well-placed punch might easily cause a tower to collapse into a pile of rubble. There seemed to be no company but stray ravens and the vultures from which the castle had earned its name.

 

It was just a large enough structure that a person could hide in its walls and not be seen. If the Stark girl were being kept here, she was likely in some small side chamber, which would make getting in close enough to kill her tough—but not impossible for Gregor—as the building was obviously built with the smaller Dornish stature in mind—no matter he would just break through the wall, simple enough. He had strength enough to do the task, and if the girl died that way, well he’d just pull her body out of the rubble and make sure the job was finished.

 

At six namedays Gregor had left Clegane’s Keep to begin to learn the basics of how to become a knight at Casterly Rock. He was to learn from Benedict Broom the master-at-arms of the Rock when he had free moments from teaching Lord Tywin’s son Jaime. And in the meanwhile he was supposed to help in the stables as an extra stable hand so he might “earn his keep” and learn his way about a horse. At six namedays he had been the normal size of a squire of eleven namedays. And because of this and the maid he was jeered by some of the knights and elder squires in service to Ser Broom

 

He was slapped across his face, knocked in the head, or boxed about his ears every time he was even suspected for doing something wrong—which being on the larger size for his age, but still relatively small and young was thus a frequent occurrence. He was the person to blame if there was even the suspicion of a problem. In those early days Gregor had learned the hard lesson that if he were to do well in this world he would do well not to be weak… and he would never be weak again.

 

One time he was knocked too hard and had fallen and hit his head upon a rather hard stone one morning. Ever since Gregor had been pained with dreadful headaches that would come at the absolute wrong times—his vision would grow blurry, he began to hear a pounding in his head, sounds became too loud, lights too bright, and an unending pain that never seemed to cease. All that mattered was getting rid of it—and the pain seemed to lessen when he beat things. It felt good to be the one beating things for a change.

 

At eleven namedays he began fighting back against those who hit him. He was almost as tall as the elder squires and knights by that point, and after beating them to a bloody pulp he felt a power rush through him that he’d never felt before beating the pigs or the maid—the sweet taste of vengeance. Ser Broom was horrified by him at that point and had him sent back to his father’s household. The headaches though still came and his little brother Sandor was there to remind him of how weak he too had once been.

 

As they walked through the abandoned castle, Lorch sniffed on the air, as though his piggy nose were trying to find truffles. Down one hallway that had one of its walls collapsed, opening it up to a view of the pass and the river directly below, Lorch had stopped and then pointed into a room. They entered it to find a woman—obviously one of the smallfolk from her worn thin clothes, stringy hair, and missing teeth—and a small boy huddled in the corner

 

“Oh lookie…we’ve found ourselves some fun,” said Lorch

 

Being large of stature had at first given Gregor an early introduction to the pleasures of a woman—at ten namedays—though looking more like he was fourteen namedays—he’d had his first girl. She had been a maid at Casterly Rock and she’d seen him one evening beating a pig bloody—just staring at him as though he were some stuffed pig she wanted to eat herself. He’d asked her what she wanted and she asked if he could do that to her. She had taught him what occurs between a man and a woman, and she had been the first he’d found to truly enjoy the pain he dealt—which at first had scared him, but then later felt more and more like a challenge. It was their secret little game. He wanted to know just how much pain could she find pleasurable, and what her limit was… death, apparently.

 

“Where is the wolf bitch?” demanded Lorch as Gregor lazily held her back with only one arm from rushing at Lorch. Lorch had the woman’s bug-eyed son with teeth like a beaver hanging from a rope by his wrists to an old wooden rafter beam from the nearly caved in wooden roof, in his one hand was a torch.

 

“Verily, I know not! We only came here to escape the Bloody Wolf!” implored the woman, and Lorch did as he’d done before when she’d given that answer—singeing a part of the boy.

 

“No, Torric!” called out the woman as the torch began to move. This time, having finished blackening the bottom of the boy’s feet he decided that the boy’s raven black hair offended him and so he turned his head as red as a Tully’s—if only for a brief while. The boy’s cries of pain sounded at first sweet to , but then that dull ache began right behind his eyes. The woman began to grow hazy, the screams began to sound like knives piercing his skull, and the throbbing pain began. There was only one way to end this, and so he lifted the woman’s skirts pushed her against the wall and began pulling at her already stringy hair.

 

They left what was left of the boy huddled around the broken and bloody corpse of his mother. He would die soon anyway. The rest of the castle was empty—utterly empty. It had been naught but a diversion. The she-wolf was still out there, and they would find her.


	20. Stannis

**STANNIS**  
  
Robert had asked him to hold Storm’s End, so he had, though they were at the point of starvation. More than once they had to burn the wasted corpse of some servant who’d died of hunger. They burned the bodies because very few people had the strength or energy to dig proper graves in the lichfield, and Stannis suspected that if the bodies were kept too long that some of the more desperate might turn to cannibalism like the wildlings practiced far north of the wall—or so it was told. Each time they had to burn a body, Stannis tried to quell the joy he had at having one less mouth to feed. It was a horrible way to think of people, but in the end it was the truth, and the smell of burning flesh no longer bothered Stannis.   
  
Through the meals of dog, horses, boiled leather, and now the dead rats they could catch he continued to hold Storm’s End, while the Fat Flower outside had feasted each day. Renly went to a window daily to stare out at the feast the Tyrells gorged themselves on, and each day Stannis had to do his duty to pull the petulant boy of four namedays away from seeing such sights. Locking him in his chambers did no good as that also looked out over the feast. It was hard enough getting his little brother to remain quiet and seeing all the fine things that were being eaten outside only made matters worse as he’d then go and tell the entire castle. Renly was too young to understand the importance of maintaining morale and the damage his childish excitement was causing, but Stannis would not excuse him for it. Considering the number of times he’d explained it to him, Stannis thought his brother ought to have caught on to the concept by now. In the early days of the siege he’d found ways of distracting Renly by taking him out to the practice yard and batting sticks with his little brother. Renly had liked this, and it had taken both of their minds off of the slow gnawing hunger scratching in their bellies. But then the hunger became too strong and the stick fighting too tiring to continue on what little they ate.  
  
  
Renly most days clung to Stannis—why he knew not. Mayhaps it was because he had never known their parents, being but a babe just climbing out of the cradle when they had died within sight of Storm’s End, and Stannis looked the most like him. Stannis knew not what to do with Renly, he was not their father—that he made sure Renly understood perfectly. But in the ways that Robert had not been a brother to him—preferring the company of the Northern wolf—Stannis tried to be one to Renly. He read to his brother the stories of the Storm Kings of old from whom they were descended, and he let his brother stay closer to him than he suspected he might have allowed had there not been a siege occurring outside. After all, should the Tyrells manage to scale the walls and snatch him to force Stannis to bend the knee and yield Storm’s End, he’d never forgive himself. He gave his little brother the most amount of food to eat in the whole of the castle, cutting his own rations to near starvation level to keep Renly alive. He might not be the most jovial of brothers like Robert was to Renly, but Stannis would protect his brother and make sure he was safe and cared for—like Robert never would.  
  
One day Stannis had pulled Renly from the window and Stannis had taken note to see that the Tyrells were now on what looked to be half-rations. Had Stannis still worshiped the Seven he might have praised them, but since he did not, he tried to have the archers who manned the walls listen up to hear why this change had occurred. What he heard bode little cheer, Robert’s “other brother”, who’d earned himself the reputation of being the “Bloody Wolf”—which conflicted with the memory Stannis had of a quiet shy young man that had hung about Robert’s shadow at Harrenhal—had apparently cut the supply lines that fed the Tyrell siege and was making his way down the Kingsroad. There was no word of Robert being in the party. Of course, Robert would send his loyal lapdog instead of coming himself. As for this reputation, Stannis found it irritating to hear, and the wild stories that spread from his archers to the rest of the dwindling staff somehow found their way to Renly’s ears, who reveled at the news of this new hero whom he might actually get to meet over the dead ones of Stannis’ stories. Not only had this “Bloody Wolf” taken Robert, but now he was slowly taking Renly from him too. Was he to lose every member of his family?  
  
When the Fat Flower had packed and boarded his ships—apparently frightened at the word of the arrival of the Bloody Wolf, he’d left a cart of provisions outside the gate to Storm's End. That infuriated Stannis. It was his final cruel joke to him. If Stannis accepted this cart he was admitting to the fact he could not provide for his people and brother. Like the bodies he had the cart of food burned. He would accept none of the Fat Flower’s false charity. He would sooner see Highgarden burn.   
  
  
  
Afterwards none of his household spoke to him—with many simply deserting Storm’s End for the promise of food to be found elsewhere. In the end the only people of his household left were Renly, Ser Cortnay Penrose, a cook, a huntsman, and the youthful fool Patchface that had been the sole survivor of his parents’ shipwreck and their last gift to him—as they had said in their last letter they had found a fool that could teach him to laugh... a task the youth had yet to achieve.  
  
  
When Robert’s "other brother" had arrived he came to find Storm’s End a deserted place. Renly upon seeing the direwolf banners had run out to greet him, while Stannis stayed in his brother’s solar watching the meeting take place. To look once again at Lord Stark, Stannis was even more suspicious of the new reputation that he had acquired, especially with how Lord Stark allowed Renly to hang on him, like he had been on Stannis.  
  
“Lord Stark,” greeted Stannis when the “Bloody Wolf” had finally made his way to his solar—Renly still hanging about, begging to hear of his victories in the field. Finding this a barrier to talk with the lord, Stannis had Ser Cortnay take the young Renly outside so that they could speak.  
  
Lord Stark began with, “I thought Storm’s End was under siege.”  
  
“As you can see, it ended,” answered Stannis as he clenched his teeth.  
  
“Where did they go? Part of their force engaged mine along the Kingsroad—killed near a thousand of my men before they were through—if they’re still about—” began Lord Stark.   
  
“They’re gone. To where I know not, nor do I truly care. They are not here and that is all that matters to me,” answered Stannis.  
  
“I see,” was Lord Stark’s reply.  
  
Silence then engulfed them. As the minutes passed it seemed almost like a contest to see which would last the longer—Lord Stark it seemed had not the endurance Stannis had as he said, “Your brother, the King, commanded me to tell you that he is in need of ships.”  
  
“Robert is King?!” asked Stannis, more than a tad incredulously.  
  
“Aye, he would like to offer you the position of Commander of Ships if you can raise a Navy for the def—” began Lord Stark  
  
Stannis interrupted him, “You mean Master of Ships”  
  
“No, Commander—it seems his grace has a few plans for reform.”  
  
“I see… and who else is on his Small Council?”  
  
“Lord Tully is his Hand  
  
“Not Lord Arryn?”  
  
“Jon, died…” answered Lord Stark quietly  
  
Stannis said nothing—he knew that Robert had considered the man more a father to him than their own father had been, but to replace him with Lord Tully?  
  
“Who else?”  
  
“Lord Denys Arryn is his Master of Laws, and I myself am his Commander of Arms and Men. He might have appointed others, but I would not know since I have not been in the capital.”  
  
“And my brother asked me to become his Commander of Ships, why?” asked Stannis.  
  
“He told me that one of the things you know best is how to sail,” answered Lord Stark.  
  
Stannis nearly choked on his breath to hear that said of him.   
  
“Tell my brother—”  
  
But at that moment his solar’s doors were opened and a man brown of hair and eyes burst through the doors. It took Stannis a moment to recognize the intruder. He was the smuggler, Davos, that had been caught and brought to Storm’s End with his ship for trial of his crimes here just before the siege had started. After the siege had begun to wear their spirits down, Stannis had taken a tour of the dungeons one evening, telling each of the prisoners yet to be tried that they could either choose a quick death now or starve with them, that Stannis had spoken with the man. The smuggler had offered to run the blockade and bring back food in exchange for some leniency on his crimes. Figuring that the man would be likely caught or killed by the Redwynes, Stannis had given him leave to try. Now it seemed the man had kept his word. Perhaps some smugglers and thieves had some honor after all.  
  
“Ah, my lord, I am glad to see you still live! When I saw that the blockade was gone and that the castle appeared empty I had thought—well, oh pardon me, I knew not you had company,” began the smuggler.  
  
“Lord Stark, this is Davos a s—”  
  
“A sailor, my lord,” interrupted Davos as he gave a bow.  
  
“A smuggler,” finished Stannis, making a point of it that the truth be known.  
  
Lord Stark merely nodded to acknowledge Davos’ presence.  
  
“Could I impose on you Lord Stark to take this man your prisoner, for he must yet face trial for his crimes,” asked Stannis.  
  
Both Lord Stark and Davos looked at him as though he were mad.   
  
“But, my lord, I brought you food to break the siege. If I am to be tried, then it must be done by yourself, as we agreed,” implored Davos.  
  
“You will be tried by me, and your service will be taken into account, as will the fact that your previous crimes remain what they were,” explained Stannis.  
  
“If you cannot take your own prisoners captive, I would not presume to ask others to do so for you,” growled Lord Stark and he left the solar without further comment, followed quickly by Davos, who gave him one last look before doing so, leaving Stannis yet again all alone.


	21. Jaime II

**JAIME**

 

With the departure of Ser Barristan, Jaime was the sole Kingsguard on Dragonstone. It was a responsibility he had never had before, and he soon found that being so required many hours of standing guard with little rest—especially with the enemy so close.

 

Guarding the dowager Queen and two Princesses from the fat bald eunuch proved not to be a difficult task as there was no true physical threat from the man. And as for the mind games he played, it seemed Queen Rhaella and Princess Elia could hold their own against the Spider.

 

Such as this evening, to anyone who knew not the Queen and Princess, it simply appeared as though Princess Elia was teaching her young nearly three namedays old daughter how to play cyvasse along with the Eunuch helping the novice that was the dowager Queen.

 

“No my dear little dragon, elephants move this way,” corrected Elia as she helped her daughter’s little fingers move the piece correctly across the board. The tiny girl in her lap stared as the bulbous animal slide to its proper destination.

 

“Oh, my Lord Varys, they do threaten us from the right flank with their elephant, mightn’t now be the time to use your dragon?” asked the Queen

 

“And risk giving away the most powerful piece in the game, your grace? I would hardly advise it. Instead I would move the spearmen her to face their light horse.”

 

As this move was made Princess Elia whispered in her daughter’s ear, and the little girl nodded her head.

 

“And yet you already have,” said Elia as she lifted her daughter over the board so that the girl could better reach a lonely little rabble piece that made a single move that took away their dragon.

 

“Oh pity… and this game was just beginning to look like fun,” commented the Queen sourly.

 

Jaime found it simply fascinating how the dowager Queen and Princess could talk circles around the Eunuch.

 

“The game is hardly over, your grace,” countered Lord Varys.

 

“But with the dragon gone, it simply becomes a long drawn out mess. Things are so much simpler when you have a dragon. I’m tired of cyvasse, if you wish to continue playing in my absence to give my granddaughter a challenge, then by all means,” said the Queen as she rose to leave. Jaime looked to the Queen and with a shake of her head and glance of her eyes he understood that he was to stay and keep watch on Elia and Rhaenys, and say what he would say to her to Elia instead.

 

“Your grandmother, my little princess gives up rather quickly,” commented Lord Varys to little Rhaenys.

 

“She’s had a lifetime of long drawn out messes, I think she’s allowed to be tired of them,” commented the Princess.

 

“She’ll never see her grandson on the throne if she continues to think like that,” commented Lord Varys as he moved his trebuchet.

 

“Have you managed to convince her to leave for Pentos?” asked Lord Varys

 

Princess Elia now moved her elephant to destroy that very same trebuchet, “I try, but we all know that the usurper has no fleet in King’s Landing, and as long as he has no fleet, why should we leave an island?”

 

Lord Varys clucked, “By the time they have a fleet it will be too late to leave.”

 

“So you have said. I still do not see why it must be Pentos. Tyrosh or even Volantis would do just as nicely,” countered the Princess

 

Quietly, Lord Varys admitted, “I have some friends in Pentos, my Princess who would help our cause.”

 

By this point the young Princess Rhaenys had curled up and fallen asleep in her mother’s lap, leaving Elia to play for her daughter alone.

 

“High placed friends, I assume, for you would not ask the Queen and myself to run around Essos as beggar maids, now would you?” asked Elia with a sweet smile.

 

Lord Varys’ answer was measured, stating, “Better to be a beggar and live, my Princess, than a Queen and dead—for if you live one day you might rise to bring justice to those who have wronged you.”

 

“Justice… so many people talk to me of justice, and yet when you seek justice, my Lord, does that not then allow those others whom you have wronged to right your wrong, to pursue the same road of justice? And once they have achieved it then of course you must have justice again… more and more it seems to me that justice is just another word for vengeance,” commented the Princess.

 

“Was there ever a difference?” asked Lord Varys.

 

Elia smiled and then said, “There should be an end and that is what justice should be.”

 

“If one brings justice about rightly, then there is an end,” countered Lord Varys.

 

“It seems my dear little dragon has fallen asleep, I am afraid we must continue this game at a later time,” said the Princess graciously.

 

“Of course, my Princess,” said Lord Varys as he bowed his head.

 

As Princess Elia rose she picked up her daughter and adjusted her so that her daughter leaned onto the side of her hip. Unconsciously the little Princess adjusted herself, resting her tiny head of dark curls onto her mother’s shoulder. With her other hand she carried an oil lamp to help her journey through the hall. Jaime followed the two Princesses out of the room and down the darkened hall, keeping watch on them. When they were far enough away from the room that they had left Lord Varys in, Jaime spoke the one word he had been bidden to tell the Princess by the old master before he had burnt the letter:

 

“Driftmark.”

 

Silently the Princess nodded her head, though to any observer it looked as though she were but nuzzling her dear daughter.

 

Jaime liked not the plan—there were too many ways it could go wrong, but they needed someone to go, and the Queen could play at being sick for as long as the ruse needed. Driftmark was quite close, it would only be for a few days, and Varys—Seven willing would not be the wiser.

 

And soon he would be able to see Cersei.


	22. Arthur

**ARTHUR**  
  
The road leading to Starfall became easier as it came down out of the mountains and ran parallel to the Torentine. The horses which they had acquired from the Manwoodys proved useful as it had become difficult for himself and the she-wolf to walk long distances—though he was more slumped over on his horse, clinging to its neck than riding. The she-wolf by comparison rode as though she had been born on the back of one—despite being heavy with the potential future sister of young Prince Aegon she truly was. There would be yet a few months before she’d give birth to the child Rhaegar had called Visenya, but even still, she was still quite large with the thing. In truth, the she-wolf should have been confined to birthing chambers, but Arthur and Oswell could not chance staying at the Tower of Joy any longer—especially with what had happened there already.  
  
The she-wolf had insisted upon going outside, stating that if she were to be confined to birthing chambers she should at least be able to see the sky once more—never mind the fact that the tower was so dilapidated that Arthur suspected that even when she was confined to birthing chambers she would still see parts of the sky, but no matter. Lord Commander Gerold had allowed it, and so she was allowed to go outside—escorted by the Lord Commander himself, while Oswell and Arthur had taken the time to relax with their armor off. Arthur himself had been dozing for just a few moments when the she-wolf had yelled. It was not a scream. There was no hint of helplessness from her tone, only shock. Immediately Arthur’s eyes snapped open, he grabbed Dawn and rushed outside without his armor. Lord Commander Gerold was being attacked unfairly by two plainly armored men—though one of them should have been more properly described as an unseemly giant with his height—with the fallen she-wolf doing her best to turn the rocks and stones about her into weapons.  
  
As Arthur was to engage the second villain, chance would have it one of the rocks that the she-wolf had intended to hit one of the attackers, instead hit the Lord Commander’s leg causing him to flinch if only for a moment as his one leg gave out and for the giant plain armored man to take that opportunity to swing his sword down with enough force to pierce the Lord commander’s chainmail and leave him wanting a head.  
  
By the time Arthur was engaging the men and Ser Oswell had joined them, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had fallen, and the true battle had begun. Oswell had dispatched the other man relatively simply, but the giant… well the giant had proven the toughest and in the end, after a nice gash had been carved across Arthur’s chest , Arthur with help from Oswell, had manged to drive Dawn straight through the man’s armor and through his gut.  
  
Arthur had endured some scars—a rather nasty one across his chest had even moved the frozen she-wolf to pity after the two villains had been vanquished, and insisted upon seeing to his wounds. He wanted to refuse, to tell her to leave him to whatever fate that the Seven decided for him. He would not have the she-wolf that had stolen the Prince from Elia touch him. He would obey his prince’s command and look after her until she had delivered the child, but that did not mean he had to appreciate her—hell the Prince seemed not to care much for her either if Arthur read him rightly…  
  
So why had he dishonored sweet Elia? Why take the she-wolf? Arthur had asked him time and again that question, only to get the same muddled reply of “the song of ice and fire” and “the dragon must have three heads.” Arthur hated to dwell on the thought, but in the few months that the Prince had been here at the Tower, Arthur had begun to question if the man was truly saner than his father.  
  
 _When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin…_  
  
One thing was clear they were not safe at the Tower anymore—others knew that they were there. Ser Oswell buried Lord Commander Gerold and hung up the two attackers from the walls of the tower as a deterrent to others that might follow. Ser Oswell stripped the two villains of their armor leaving their corpses bare for the birds to pick clean—already the vultures of the Red Mountains hovered overhead, and it was only then that Arthur recognized the giant as the man that the Prince had so recently knighted. He was a Westerlands knight, though the name escaped Arthur with the amount of pain he was in.  
  
 _So Tywin has finally joined the war? What did he hope to gain by this?_  
  
They then left, and in his weakened state, Arthur had asked that they remove to Starfall—though it would take a few weeks to get there, if he were to die of infection he would wish for it to be as close to his ancestral home as possible. Ser Oswell had agreed, and together along with the she-wolf they had set out with what little provisions they had brought. The servants—the cook and her husband that they had brought with them were paid and dismissed.  
  
Each evening, the she-wolf tended to his wound with a poultice made of herbs she found and recognized—saying that they would not heal him, but stave off any infection as long as they were reapplied each day. He hated to feel the touch of her fingers across his chest—it felt wrong as though she were tainting it with her own vile charms. Mayhaps she was a Northern greenwitch or whatever they were called. How else but with sorcery could she have stolen the Prince from Elia. Elia, who held the sweetest face in the entire realm, and who deserved much better than she had received.   
  
They came in view of Starfall within a week. It should have taken three days, but with how weak he felt and the state of the she-wolf they had taken a much slower pace than they would have otherwise.  
  
Starfall was a magnificent white-stoned castle set upon an island in the middle of the mouth of the Torentine where it met the Summer Sea. To see it once again cast against the lovely light blue sky and waters, and verdant green trees which dotted the riverbanks, Arthur felt himself fall into a blissful haze.  
  
When he came to, he was back in the chambers of his youth with a bandage across his chest. It was early morning and having fallen asleep in a chair by his bedside was Ashara… his dear sister Ashara holding a bundle… a bundle that moved and then began to scream.  
  
Had he slept that long that the she-wolf had delivered, or had the journey caused the bastard to come early?  
  
At the sound of the infant wailing, his sister came to and in a state of what looked to be complete exhaustion moved to expose her own breast and placed the infant upon her own chest. She had not noticed he was awake—obviously still in a daze between waking and sleeping. Something was wrong here. Ashara should not have been nursing this child—they had employed wet nurses like Wylla for that—but the very fact she could nurse this child at all…  
  
“Seven damn the villain who left you with child.”  
  
At this his sister looked up surprised at first moving to hide the suckling babe in her arms, but then realizing that such a move was pure folly, she simply slumped back in the chair for her own ease, and replied with a rather weak and exhausted voice—far different from the energetic laughing one Arthur was used to hearing from her, “The Seven be blessed you’re awake.”  
  
“Who?” asked Arthur. She had not seemed at all pregnant when Arthur had last seen her when he’d departed King’s Landing with the Prince for the North, and yet she must have been for the babe to be at her breast now, and that must mean the man must have been at that Tournament. It wasn’t that she had brought yet another Sand into the world—no, it was that the man had done this to his little sister and abandoned her.  
  
Ashara sighed and said, “Arthur, you have spent far too much time in King’s Landing. I _chose_ to keep my babe. I could have drunk moon tea.”  
  
“Why did you not?” he asked.  
  
Ashara smiled silently for a moment, as if reflecting on something that Arthur knew not. When she did reply, her voice still frail said, “Because he had been rather sweet—far sweeter than any man I had had before—and I wanted to have a way to remember him.”  
  
His sister had been charmed into keeping the babe by the mere acts of a mewing boy? “Sweet?”  
  
Ashara laughed, but it was an anemic version of her usual one, breaking into a tiny cough before she could control herself and continue on with what she meant to say, “ _He_ was the blushing virgin, eager to please _me_. He proposed, afterwards, believing he’d wronged my honor somehow, and that a marriage would somehow repair it. I had thought that had been a precious thing to say, but I had not been looking for a marriage by bringing him into my bed, and I told him as much. A man and a woman can find pleasure in one another without it resulting in a marriage, I had told him. He of course took that the wrong way and had stormed out.”  
  
Of course, Ashara had always been one to enjoy her pleasures—no matter where they took her. And like any elder brother he had always found it hard to give in to letting her have her way—he always put up a fight of course, but ultimately she would get what she wanted, no matter his protest. But who could the damnable man be that had convinced her to bring yet another Sand into this world? Mayhaps a look at the child would give away the identity.  
  
“Niece or Nephew?” he asked.  
  
“Nephew,” she replied, handing the satiated babe to him. In an instant Arthur had narrowed down the possibilities of who the father might be to two candidates—and knowing the distinctions in personality between the two by reputation he felt he could pretty well guess which of the two was the actual father. Brown tufts of hair, a long face, and sleepy gray eyes gave everything away.  
  
 _Damn the wolves._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, unlike my other AH.com time line based story I decided to go with a different theory of Jon Snow's origins. If you like R + L = J, then I encourage you to check out my series: Return of the Direwolves. This time I wanted to do something different and so I've chosen to explore slightly different elements to mix things up for me. So in this time line N + A = J. Other differences and other theories have been already been chosen to make a distinction from Return of the Direwolves and to give me the opportunity to look at the world of Westeros in a slightly different light.
> 
> Please do enjoy the rest of the ride.


	23. Hoster

**HOSTER**  
  
 _Seven damn the sailors for fleeing the capital!_  
  
Hoster tried quite hard not to think of falling deep into the sea. Though he had been raised all his life upon a river and enjoyed such cool waters—he had always preferred a river to that of the sea—especially on a boat this small and rickety. Lord Tytos Blackwood and the young Lord Jason Mallister and accompanied him on this voyage for “his own protection”, but it made the likelihood of tipping the small fishing boat that was the largest vessel that had been left in King’s Landing. The three of them, plus their armor, and the captain caused the boat to sit quite low. One wrong move and they would end up in the water.  
  
“May the seven remind me never to go sailing with you again my lord,” commented Tytos with a wry smile, after Hoster scolded him for reaching his hand lazily into the water and causing the boat to lean.  
  
“I prefer a mode of transportation that I have more control over. Give me a good horse any day!” proffered Hoster. He was a natural on a horse—he understood horses well and they him.  
  
“Pahh… a horse has a mind of its own, my lord, a boat needs only rowers, sails and the ability to read the wind” dismissed Jason with a confidence that they would not tip over so easily.  
  
“And when the wind shifts and the waves rise?” countered Hoster  
  
Jason shook his head and said, “Then you do what you can, or pull in to shore and wait.”  
  
“With a properly trained horse, you don’t have to wait,” rebounded Hoster with a slight scoff.  
  
They made it to Driftmark without taking on too much water over the side. But needless to say Hoster was not looking forward to the return trip.  
  
Driftmark was the largest island of all those in Blackwater Bay, and used to sport three large settlements before the Dance of the Dragons in which the town of Spicetown was so brutally sacked by the greens—the bodies of men, women and children had been butchered in the streets and left as carrion—that it had not been rebuilt ever since. They would meet the representative from Dragonstone in a abandoned small cove not too far from the ruins of that town. The cove was known by a distinctive outcropping of rocks which jutted out in the shape of a face, earning the cove the name of the “Watcher’s Cove”. They found the tale relatively easily. As they pulled into it, Hoster looked up at the rocks fabled to be said in the shape of a face, and he saw, not a perfect representation, but a likeness close enough to give an eerie feeling of being watched by its solemn expression. When they pulled to shore there was already a similar sized fishing boat there awaiting them—one with two hooded passengers plus their captain. After their boat had been secured by an anchor thrown to shore, they and the other boat’s passengers did rise and meet inbetween the boats. The representatives did not reveal themselves but instead pointed to what appeared to be a secluded gave just below the infamous Watcher’s face. They entered it and began their discussions.  
  
The first person to reveal themselves was Lord Celtigar of Claw Isle, Hoster recognized the sour man on sight.  
  
When the other figure pulled back the hood, Hoster was immediately taken aback by the sight underneath it. Standing there before him was the Queen Dowager herself—and Seven help the poor woman she was a sight to see with scabs formed all over her beautiful face. She was a far cry from the young beauty Hoster recalled her being, near thirty years ago.  
  
Upon recognizing her Hoster bent his knee to the Queen Dowager, and Jason and Tytos likewise followed his lead. He was then was waved up by her grace.  
  
“No need for ceremony here, my lord. Stand Hoster, and let me look at you,” she implored.  
  
He obliged, Jason and Tytos rising along with him, who along with Lord Celtigar silently took posts at the mouth of the cave so that Hoster and the Queen could speak in private.  
  
“You’ve gone near completely grey,” commented the Queen.  
  
“Aye, and you are—” he began.  
  
  
She interrupted, “I can look in a piece of Myrish glass well enough to know exactly how I look. So please, save your flattery for someone else.” She then took a breath and continued, “Presumably we’ve each arrived from our respective side to discuss conditions with one another.”  
  
Hoster immediately responded, “Yes, of course. As Hand to the King, Robert Baratheon, King by right of conquest and inheritance to the Iron Throne, as recognized and crowned by the High Septon, anointed with the Seven holy oils would—”  
  
“I said there was no need to stand on ceremony, must you be so formal Hoster?” asked the Queen.  
  
“Your grace…”  
  
Almost exasperatedly she said, “We are nearly alone in a cave on an island far enough from court. If you speak plainly, I promise that I won’t tell. Besides, it will save us time.”  
  
 _What did she mean by saving time?_  
  
Hoster gathered himself and continued, keeping to the point as well as he could, “The King would like to extend his protection for his cousins as his ancestor Orys Baratheon took Argella Durrandon under his protection.”  
  
“Is he to marry one or all of us then?” clucked the Queen dowager with a slight wit that Hoster had not seen in her since before she’d married Aerys.  
  
“The proposal is that the Princess Rhaenys be betrothed to his eldest male heir,” expounded Hoster.  
  
“When he has one, I am assuming,” countered the Queen.  
  
“Indeed, your grace. Lord Stark is searching for the King’s betrothed at this very time.”  
  
“Is there anything else to this proposal?” asked the Queen.  
  
Hoster nodded his head and said, “He would raise Dragonstone to a seat of Lord Paramount of the Narrow Sea. It would have sworn to it the islands of Driftmark and Claw Isle. All of this he would give the young Princess.”  
  
“Making Rhaenys what exactly? Lady of the Narrow Sea? And what about after she marries our King’s eldest son? Who gets Dragonstone then?” questioned the Queen.  
  
 _She’s sharper than I thought… Aerys must have dulled her wits._  
  
He continued his explanation, “The second son she gives birth to would be given the seat upon the ascension of his elder brother to the throne.”  
  
“And what name would my great-grandson have? Baratheon, I presume.”  
  
“Indeed, your grace.”  
  
She was quiet for a moment, considering the offer as it stood, “It seems a generous offer for Rhaenys.”  
  
Hoster agreed, “The King is generous.”  
  
“Indeed, he did so generously give my son the gift of death,” she replied darkly. But then after a moment she sighed and admitted, “Not that I wouldn’t say he did not deserve such a gift. He was nearly as mad as Aerys was… he just channeled his madness into different things. I used to pray to all the Seven that Aegon would be more like his mother… but now that seems a moot point.”  
  
Another silence followed, and just about when Hoster was to speak, she said, “The only condition I would seek to add to this agreement, is that if my great-grandson would so choose it, that he be allowed to take up the name Targaryen along with the title—if he so choose. I would not force the name upon him, not with its legacy of madness and bloodshed. I simply believe it would be better to give my future great-grandson more a sense of being his “own man” rather than his brother’s lackey. One path allows for peace to exist while the other leads straight back to rebellion and chaos.”  
  
“You speak as though you can see the future,” answered Hoster.  
  
“I was not gifted with that blessing of my house, Hoster. I merely speak from knowing my own family’s history. Is there anything else to this offering?”  
  
Hoster nodded yet again and continued, “He would bring you all to King’s Landing so that the young Princess may have access to the best education—”  
  
She interrupted yet again, “So that we may be watched?”  
  
Hoster emphasized, “ _Protected_ your grace, from those who might seek to use you for their own ends.”  
  
She was oddly silent on this matter.  
  
The Queen at long last replied with, “I shall have to discuss this matter with my gooddaughter. The offer is a generous one… one which would bring peace. And after all that has happened in the last year I fear we need that most of all.”  
  
“You shall of course, send your reply by raven?” asked Lord Tully  
  
“Aye. To be frank with you, I would not expect an answer so soon. There are things… which must be seen to first,” answered the Queen.  
  
Hoster’s looked at her with suspicion, “I fail to see how securing peace in the realm is not a top priority.”  
  
The queen stressed, “ _It is_. King Robert can have his hollow crown—it has brought naught but tragedy and misfortune to my family. First Summerhall, then the madness which drove Rhaegar to abandon his wife for the she-wolf, and then the madness of my husband to provoke the issue into a full out rebellion then finally to kill himself and all his heirs male. Robert can have the Iron Throne—I am tired of tragedies befalling my family. May he and his family be better suited to it.”  
  
He asked, “Forgive me your grace if that is your attitude, then why take so long to discuss it at all?”  
  
The Queen nervously replied, “Elia will have to convince her brother to bring the war to an end.”  
  
“A fact easier achieved by accepting our offer,” replied Hoster.  
  
She elaborated upon this issue, “If we do so before convincing that gouty old snake, he’ll say we were coerced into agreeing and keep the realm at war. Dorne after all resisted the dragons, they’ll resist any army which attempts to pass through the Boneway or Prince’s Pass.”  
  
Hoster scoffed, “With what army, milady? The Royal Army of Dorne was utterly routed but a moon or so ago at the Kingswood.”  
  
She now seemed much sure of herself as she spoke, “They need not an army to declare independence—which they would do if we’re not careful. They would put a spear and bow in every Dornish man and woman’s hands, man the Boneway and the Prince’s Pass with but a handful of their best fighters, and all their castles with but a few men and let the Red Mountains and the desert destroy what army dares try to enter. You could seize Planky Town and Sunspear, I suppose, but then the Dornish would simply retreat to the Red Mountains—and that would be a long bloody conflict, and the last thing either the Princess or myself wish for is a long bloody conflict. The realm has already suffered for the madness of my husband. Let us keep peace whatever way we must.”  
  
 _She’s hiding something… but what I know not._  
  
After giving the matter some thought, he came up with a solution, “I would feel better if I did have one of my men with you, and in return I would take one of your men.”  
  
  
“You doubt our honor?” questioned the Queen with some incredulity.  
  
Hoster rebounded, “I do not, but I would remind you that honor is in neither your House words nor the Princess Elia’s House of birth.”  
  
“And yet you would call yourself honorable to doubt mine?” asked the Queen with some amazement.  
  
“Call it being secure. It would be a sign of good faith until the peace is settled. I would have this exchange of men to ensure that during our negotiations the lines of communications will remain open,” explained Hoster.  
  
She seemed to consider this for some time but then finally agreed, and it was arranged that Jason and Lord Celtigar would be exchanged while negotiations continued between them. Jason volunteered, telling Hoster in private that if things truly turned sour he at least would know how to sail a boat for his escape if he to commandeer one. As they left the cave their parties agreed upon their course, Hoster noticed that Lord Celtigar handed Jason a letter he jotted off quickly to give to one of his men. Hoster thought to the one benefit that would come from trading Jason for the sour Lord Celtigar was that at least the trip back to King’s Landing would not be so perilous as Lord Celtigar wore no armor.


	24. Arthur II

 

 **ARTHUR**  
  
After that first morning, Ashara came to see him each day at that time, bringing his nephew with her. For some reason, Arthur could not help but notice that with each day she seemed to grow more exhausted—but she insisted upon the ritual, dismissing his worries as “Nothing but a trifle. Don’t worry it will soon pass”. He asked if the babe had a name one morn.  
  
She sighed and said, “No. I want to give him a Northern name. He’ll have Sand all his life, so I thought he ought to have something of his father in his name. I had thought to name him for his father.”  
  
“So Eddard Sand?”  
  
She smiled but then shook her head, saying “While Ned is his father, Eddard Sand just sounds wrong—as would Ned Sand. I then thought mayhaps Brandon—since it is such a well-known Stark name. But then I thought that people might think Brandon had been his father… and besides Br _an_ S _an_ d?"  
  
Arthur smirked and added, “The children at the Water Gardens would tease him unmercifully.”  
  
Ashara giggled at this, which led to a small cough, before she continued, “I have tried to see if I could find any other Northern names that I might like, but we have so few records of the North that… well, it’s difficult to say the least. I know ‘tis bad luck for him not to have a name, but I haven’t found _his_ name—you understand, Arthur?” she explained.  
  
He nodded then offered, “Have you asked his father for a suggestion?”  
  
At this Ashara seemed to frown and grow even paler than she normally was.  
  
She admitted quietly, as though it were a great secret, “Ned mustn’t know.”  
  
Arthur was confused, and then asked, “Why? Why keep the boy from knowing his father?”  
  
His young nephew mewed in his arms and began to root around, finding a new position to lie in.  
  
“There are reasons…” she was interrupted by a small coughing fit, but soon gained control of herself, “reasons which I promise to tell you, but not now. Not when I have such little time…”  
  
 _Such little time? These coughs, her exhaustion… was she—no, she said she was going to get better. I have to believe it. Then what else could little time mean?_  
  
“Ashara, what are you planning?”  
  
Before she could answer there was a knock at the door. In entered one of the nursemaids, Wylla, if Arthur recalled her name well enough—who had been hired by their family when his younger sister Allyria had been born three years ago. In her arms she carried a small bundle, just like the one he had seen his nephew being held. Had his elder sister Amyrilla and her husband given him another niece or nephew? Ashara’s reaction was almost visceral as she stood rather quickly, swaying as though unsteady on her feet.  
  
“Wylla, I told you—!” she began, but what she had told Wylla, Arthur never found out as she promptly collapsed to the floor.  
  
“Ashara!”  
  
“My lady!”  
  
Wylla then at once entered the room, placing her bundle down upon the bed near him so that she could look after Ashara. Arthur was so concerned for his little sister’s safety he did not look at the bundle placed upon him.  
  
“I told Lady Ashara she should not ignore the Maester’s orders—but she insisted,” clucked Wylla.  
  
“What’s wrong with her?” asked Arthur, feeling for the moment almost like a scared child.  
  
“The birth of her babe was a difficult one. She lost a lot of blood, yet she’s managed to survive… but she’s not been the same health-wise ever since. The Maester told her to stay in bed… but then you arrived and the Lady has been on her feet the entire time.”  
  
 _Ashara… why have you been doing this to yourself?_  
  
Ashara meekly began to stir, and Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, for the moment. It was then Arthur heard a cry from the bundle that Wylla had placed on the bed, and he turned to see what he thought a nephew of his might look like. There was the silver-blonde hair, and dark blue eyes that in certain light almost appeared violet, but like his own were truly a dark blue.  
  
“And is this another nephew of mine?” asked Arthur.  
  
The nursemaid responded, “No my lord, this is Prince Aegon.”  
  
As soon as she had said it, Arthur thought back to the last time he’d seen the infant Prince—he’d noted then that young Aegon had had the same eyes as his father—dark lilac. This babe’s eyes before him were too dark.  
  
“Verily you jape, Wylla, for this cannot be the young Prince.”  
  
“I say only what my lady has told me, and nothing more,” clucked Wylla honestly. At this point Ashara began to rise. Wylla said she would be right back with some servants to help escort her back to her rooms.  
  
Something was wrong here. Ashara had been Elia’s personal handmaiden, surely she should have seen the infant Prince often enough to know upon sight that this could not be the young Prince. But then again he’d known the shade of Rhaegar’s eyes well enough and seen them in the young Prince. Since Ashara was so oft with Elia instead of Rhaegar, mayhaps she—no she still should have known.  
  
“Now you know…” wheezed Ashara miserably as she sat on the floor leaning against the legs of the chair.  
  
“What were you planning, Ashara?” asked Arthur  
  
She croaked, “Once I was better I was going to flee to Essos, and raise them as brothers.”  
  
“Why flee to Essos?” he asked.  
  
“To raise the young Prince... like I promised Elia I would... She was worried what might come after the Starks were…” Elia stopped, trying to catch her breath.  
  
He recalled Ser Gerold’s tale of the gruesome deaths of Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon. He’d joined them after being sent to find the Prince, and stayed at the Tower upon the command of the Prince to guard the pregnant she-wolf. Thinking of being burned alive by wildfire... Seven help the victims of Aerys' madness.  
  
“What’s happened since the death of the Starks? I’ve heard little news since then beyond the fact that there was a rebellion.”  
  
“Have you not heard, Arthur? The rebels have won. They slaughtered the Royal Army of King’s Landing at the Stoney Sept and then marched for the capital. They met the Royal Army of Dorne and slaughtered them at the Kingswood. The Red Keep was burned to the ground by Aerys, and from what anyone knows the whole of the royal family is dead. Rhaegar was slain on the battlefield by Robert’s warhammer at the Kingswood, along with our Dornish troops, and now that ‘Demon of the Woods’ rules as King now.”  
  
 _Seven Hells!_ Had the world so fallen apart since then?  
  
“What of the Tyrells?” he asked.  
  
“I know not, last I heard they still were sieging Storm’s End, but with Aerys dead, Robert is treated as lawful King as well as King by conquest.”  
  
He could not stand the thought of Rhaegar's murderer sitting upon the Iron Throne as though he'd had a right to it. The thought angered him. “You said Elia gave you her son?” asked Arthur  
  
“Not herself, no. She had Lord Varys give him to me after I was discovered to be pregnant and then forced to leave.”  
  
 _Lord Varys?!_ Arthur did not trust that man, he had been too close to the King and always whispering about Rhaegar… but then again mayhaps he had been right to whisper in the King’s ear about Rhaegar. But that mattered not. Arthur thought for a moment of the Red Keep being burnt down by Aerys, and shuddered to think of Ashara amongst its ruins... Seven be blessed, Ned Stark had saved Ashara’s life by giving her his nephew. Not that he’d ever admit that though. He turned to look at the other babe, the one said to be Aegon and considered for a moment a life of raising the babe in Essos with the she-wolf’s pup when it finally came. Always on the run, secretly training him to be a good Prince, one who he would see would not be driven to Targaryen madness. But he looked again at those dark blue eyes. No, no one would believe that this was Aegon—not till every person who remembered Rhaegar was dead and buried, and that would take years… years that the babe would grow into an impatient and possibly reckless young man, waiting to take a crown that he felt was his. There was only one truth in this whole messy situation, and that would be that he would still have to wait for the she-wolf to give birth. If she gave birth to a bastard son, he would go to Essos—if Ashara was well enough and wanted to come as well, he would not stop her. Together they would raise the she-wolf’s bastard—for even her bastard progeny would be better than Robert as King, and have more right as King, bastards of the male line after all came before sons of the female line. This blue-eyed babe could pass for his own son in Essos—no matter the truth of his origins. He’d ne’er need know the truth, and he and his nephew could be good and loyal supporters—generals even, for he would train them well—to help bring the she-wolf’s pup to the Iron Throne. But one thing had to be made clear before this future could be possible.  
  
He calmly broke the silence that had drifted over the room, “Ashara, this is not the young prince—his eyes, they’re dark blue.”  
  
“They’re a blue-violet,” she insisted.  
  
He answered firmly, “No, Ashara, they’re clearly blue.”  
  
He then set his nephew down next to him and held up the babe that had been left by him, so that Ashara would see the truth for herself.  
  
Ashara stared, and Arthur saw from her face that she recognized the truth, though she seemed loathed to admit it. She eventually did concede in a round-about way, “Prince Valarr and Princess Alysanne both had blue eyes.”  
  
“Yes, the Targaryens may have blue or purple eyes. This is known, except I know that Prince Aegon had his father’s dark lilac eyes.”  
  
“They were more violet when I left King’s Landing,” said Ashara as she looked to the floor of his chamber.  
  
“Violet is not dark lilac, Ashara. Whoe’er this babe is, this is not the Prince.”  
  
It was then Ashara looked up at Arthur, meeting his eyes. By her silence and pleading look, Arthur understood that _she had known_ , and that she had known for a long while. Mayhaps though why she had been loathed to admit the truth to herself was because she had thought to have been asked this of Elia and had not wished to fail her, especially after learning of the destruction of the Red Keep. Admitting that Varys had given her the wrong child would have been admitting failure.  
  
It was then that Wylla returned with two man servants who helped Ashara to her feet and steadied her as she walked. Arthur wished his little sister well and she said not worry for her, and that it was just a triffle.  
  
 _Oh Ashara, when will you learn to ever admit the truth to yourself?_  
  
This left Arthur with his nephew and the false prince, though this was not for long as Wylla returned. She seemed to have trouble picking up both babes, so Arthur offered to carry his own nephew back to the nursery for her. Wylla of course said he should be in bed as much as Ashara, but Arthur cared not. He was tired of sitting abed. He wanted to find out more of what had happened since he’d left for the North with Rhaegar. For the first time since returning home, he actually wanted to see the she-wolf and hear of how she fared—for she held the future King, of that he was certain. The she-wolf’s pup would be a King who he, his nephew, and this false Aegon would fight to crown.  
  
After rising, he threw on a loose fitting silken shift that left little to the imagination but it was light enough that he would not sweat profusely upon donning it. He found his legs a slight bit sore, but still manageable once he had walked about the room a bit. He picked up his nephew and followed Wylla, casually asking the nursemaid where the she-wolf was kept. He discovered that she had been confined to birthing chambers almost immediately upon arrival.  
  
“Lady Amerilla had insisted upon it, the moment she saw the lady,” explained Wylla  
  
Arthur knew where the birthing chambers were—they were but in the same wing as the nursery.  
  
He proclaimed with some ease, “I shall take my nephew to see his aunt then.” It would give him an excuse to check on the she-wolf.  
  
“Ser, you know a man is not permitted to enter a birthing chamber for the months a lady has taken to confinement!” exclaimed Wylla with a bit of japing shock.  
  
“I hardly think the she-wolf will give birth to her pup this month yet,” replied Arthur, as they came to the nursery. He continued on while Wylla entered to lay the false prince in his cradle while Arthur continued on to the end of the corridor where the magnificent wooden door, with a carved relief of falling stars. He opened the door and came to a darkened chamber that contained a large bed. The room smelled of incense, specifically of myrrh for protection, frankincense for purification, and roses for peace and serenity. The room was sparsely lit with a few candles that hardly gave much light, and upon the bed sat the she-wolf. Arthur had to admit that in the dim light she appeared quite… entrancing. He could see how mayhaps in something like the moonlight Rhaegar might have been distracted by her wild northern beauty for a moment—though that did not excuse his abandonment of sweet Elia. The she-wolf put down the book she had been reading by candlelight upon his entrance into the room. The she-wolf should not be so calmly sitting in this room, and yet she was. She seemed strangely affected—likely due to whatever else Amerilla had mixed into the incense—his elder sister had learned from an old greenblooded woman the effects of different smells upon people—an old Rhoynish bit of magic, she had called it. He made a note not to stay too long, lest he be affected as well.  
  
“Ser Arthur… I had wondered if you still lived… they have told me nothing since leaving me in these chambers,” said the she-wolf languidly.  
  
“As they ought not. You should not trouble yourself with other matters during these final months,” insisted Arthur.  
  
“I suppose not…” answered the she-wolf dreamily, she then laid back a bit more upon the bed and smiled, before asking, “I feel my son within me grow stronger each day… soon he will come… and avenge me.”  
  
 _He’ll avenge the Targaryens if I have anything to say about it. Though… that’ll be at a later time… not, now…_  
  
“I’ve brought you a visitor, my lady,” said Arthur as he brought their shared nephew to her arms.  
  
“Oh?” asked the she-wolf as she took their unnamed nephew in her arms. A look of shock washed across her face like a wave from the Summer sea against the beaches of the Torentine. And just as quickly as it had come it left.  
  
The she-wolf spoke lazily, “I must dream… yes, for that’s the only way you could have brought me my son before his birth or come yourself… yes… this is a dream…”  
  
“No, my lady… this is your nephew… your brother Eddard’s bastard son…” he could not help but say.  
  
“Ned father a bastard? I’d sooner believe day to have become night…” answered the indolent she-wolf.  
  
“And yet my sister gave birth to him all the same,” answered Arthur.  
  
“No… this is my son… and this is but a dream…” protested the she-wolf tiredly.  
  
She would be fine. She would deliver the future King and he would take the children and Ashara to Essos. The she-wolf could remain here for all he cared. _But that would not be fair to the future King—to be raised without both his parents…_ The incense! It was already clouding his mind. He had to leave. _But it is so pleasant here._ He had to leave now, before he became as indolent as the she-wolf was.  
  
And he took his nameless nephew from the she-wolf’s arms and left the room, her meek protests following him all the way. The slight cloud of the incense stayed with him as he came to the nursery, and it wasn’t until he threw open a window and breathed the fresh clean breeze off the Summer sea, that Arthur began to feel once again in control of himself. As he looked out upon the Summer sea, he saw a ship he had not seen a few days prior had docked upon the small private port that his house controlled at the mouth of the Torentine, upon its mast flew the banner of House Targaryen.


	25. Davos

**DAVOS**  
  
He had nearly left Storm’s End after that insult. He had risked much gathering all those onions to bring to the young Stormlord, but now they were useless it seemed. All that work, for what? So that he could have his honor insulted? He had meant it when he said he wanted an end to life as a smuggler. He admitted as much to Lord Stark, who had quietly listened to his prattle as they walked out of Storm’s End.  
  
“Yet you did smuggle, did you not?” remarked Lord Stark.  
  
“Aye I did, but when you’re born at the bottom of a flea’s ass, you do what you must to survive. Honor is a thing to dream of then. I have a wife and a few sons now, and I am tired of constantly being on the run and rarely being able to see them, of them having no home to go to but be constantly on the move for fear of capture to force me to surrender. I would like to live the quiet of a good, clean life.”  
  
“How many men could you take on your ship?” asked the northern Lord after silence.  
  
“That depends, do you like sleeping with onions or not?” asked Davos with a smirk.  
  
“It matters not where we sleep, as long as we sleep. I would ask of you to sail a select group of my men and myself south to Starfall.”  
  
“Why Starfall, my lord? Why not back to the capital?”  
  
Lord Stark spoke measuredly, “I have a… friend I wish to speak with before I continue on with my orders. I need to get into Dorne now, and I need to get there without anyone being the wiser.”  
  
“So yet another lord asks me to smuggle for them,” mumbled Davos  
  
 _Am I never to end this business and know a quiet life?_  
  
Lord Stark seemed to understand and so clarified, “Clear your debts with Lord Stannis and then do this for me, and I will provide land for you and your family to settle down upon in the North. There are vast tracks of it along the coasts which would be good for a family with skills in ships, especially on the western coast.”  
  
Davos looked at Lord Stark, he saw that he meant what he said, “My lord, you are a just man. I will do what you ask, _and_ take care so that you and your men need not sleep with the onions.”  
  
Davos turned to re-enter the gates of Storm’s End. As he did, he noticed something he hadn’t the first time. He had noticed of course that the castle was empty looking, but now he noticed just how much as there was not a guard or an archer in sight, mayhaps not even in the entirety of the castle. Suddenly Davos saw the situation from an entirely different perspective, and he knew how he could make good with the stubborn Stag and mayhaps come out with his hand only a slightly harmed instead of completely chopped off. If he was to make good and be honorable he must face what he had done. So Davos grabbed a piece of rope and as he returned to the solar of the castle, he tied the rope loosely around his own wrists—it would only help him make his point, if he was smart and glib with his tongue.  
  
He found the young stubborn stag lord brooding not in the solar, but outside of it by a window. He cleared his throat, and Lord Stannis turned, his piercing blue eyes spearing right through Davos. Davos held out his tied hands  
  
“Forgive me my lord, but I could not help but notice that you seem to be missing a few men. Since that is so I thought I might save you the trouble of having me brought back to you for your justice.”  
  
“Enough with these theatrics. I have enough men.”  
  
Davos put down his hands, though he did not take his hand out of the ropes.  
  
He said, with some slyness, “Then my eyes must mistake the archers and guards for gargoyles.”  
  
“A few have left,” Stannis gruffly admitted.  
  
“For what reason have they left, my lord?”  
  
“None you need concern yourself with,” snapped Stannis  
  
“I mean no offense, my lord. I merely seek to know how to help. For you see, it is not an easy thing to be a leader of men.  
  
“What would you know of the subject, you’re—”  
  
Davos interrupted him here, to save himself the trouble of being agitated and losing focus, “A smuggler? Aye, that I have been, but I’ve also been a captain and led my crew. It takes more than one man to sail a boat. On a ship a captain is in charge yes, and his good judgment is called upon to be a lighthouse which his crew will look to for guidance in a storm, aye. But good judgment knows when to be strong in the face of a gale, and when to give way for compromise and the sake of mercy. Mercy most especially is a gift to be rarely given but when it is it shall spark loyalty in all those who know. The key is to be pliable—to be too stiff and one can become too brittle and break,   
  
“And too loose and you bend too easily like a tree in the wind,” scoffed Stannis.  
  
  
“My point being that neither extreme brings loyalty. One must find a balance between the two, in my experience as a captain, that is. And a kingdom is like a boat, I daresay.”  
  
“You speak of mercy and giving way to sway my opinion, do you?” asked Stannis with narrow eyes.  
  
“And yet I have returned, for your justice, and would see it through,” countered Davos.  
  
“Indeed, after finding it unsatisfactory before,” said Stannis glibly.  
  
Davos corrected him, “No, I found the idea that you would have someone else besides you—like we agreed upon—to be an insult to our bargain. And I also saw the gargoyles.”  
  
Stannis huffed and looked once again out the window. There was a long silence which followed and Davos wondered if he had already far overstepped his bounds—that is until Stannis replied with, “Why stay when you know you can leave? I have no real power to hold you you have pointed that out as much.”  
  
Davos let go of a breath he had not known that he’d been holding in all that time and said, “Because then I would not be given the opportunity to start my life anew—to give my sons a father they deserve and can take pride in.”  
  
“Do smugglers think of such lofty things?” asked Stannis dryly.  
  
“Fathers do. And I am that now more than I am a smuggler,” answered Davos.  
  
Stannis once again paused, and Davos could distinctly tell that the young man did grind his teeth as he did, before saying, “Your words are sweet, but I do fear they’re honeyed too much.”  
  
Davos urged, “Then test me. Pass your judgment and let us be done with this.”  
  
“And if you like my judgment not?” queried Stannis with what almost looked to be a smirk.  
  
Davos stood up straighter, as though brought before the Master of Laws himself and said, “It is your judgment, if you judge poorly then that is for the gods to answer when they will.”  
  
“You put your faith in the gods, and yet smuggle? You are a contradictory man,” remarked Stannis  
  
“Do you not have faith?” questioned Davos—he had not ever run into anyone who had no faith—differing faiths, aye he had often met, but no faith? That was something else entirely.  
  
“No. I don’t,” answered Stannis.  
  
Davos commented, “Pity.”  
  
 _He will never have the guiding wisdom of the Crone or the sound judgment of the Father to help him… he needs someone to help him… but who?_  
  
“Would you have the judgment from me now?” asked Stannis and Davos was brought back from his thoughts.  
  
“Aye. And I’d have you perform the sentence, no matter what you decide,” insisted Davos.  
  
The stubborn Stag swallowed, took a deep breath, and then nodded his head. He lowered his voice as if to speak with more authority than he truly felt, “The act of smuggling is a serious offense—not only does it disturb trade but it takes advantage of the poor and the smallfolk by undercutting the value of their labor. For such an offense the crime is usually severing a hand, but yet you’ve shown by your own power—when given the opportunity to leave, thrice now, you have instead returned to insist that your crimes be justly met, once after bringing provisions that were meant to help preserve the castle. Events however conspired against you to end the siege before your return, but I doubt not that you would have saved me and my people. For showing that even a smuggler can have honor when he seeks the proper justice of the law, I would not take your whole hand, but your smallest finger from each hand.”  
  
Davos met his eyes and said calmly, “If you would take them yourself, my lord, I would gladly give them to you.”  
  
Stannis took a deep breath and then nodded, saying, “Very well, shall we go through with it?”  
  
Davos answered, “Aye, my lord.”  
  
And so Davos became an eight-fingered man. After a few days of recovering and unloading the crates of onions, Davos then set sail with Lord Stark and his fifteen men under a banner which he had used before many times to sneak into ports without a second glance—and so a black field with a red three-headed dragon upon it flew from his mast.   
  
Lord Stark seemed to dislike the deceit, but as Davos reminded him: “You yourself my Lord said you wanted to get into Dorne without anyone being the wiser.”


	26. Barristan III

**BARRISTAN**  
  
Upon arrival at Starfall’s port, Barristan took a moment to marvel at the sight of the home of sweet Ashara Dayne. The white castle sat on an island in the middle of the Torentine river where it met the Summer Sea, in the midst of a great valley of the Red Mountains which was a verdant green paradise supported by the river. Unlike other castles it had large windows—akin to that of a Sept—full of stained glass of the finest purples and blues and greens that Barristan had ever seen. Likely they were from Myr for such fine glasswork which glistened in the sunlight could be of no Westerosi craftsman—of that Barristan felt assured. Around the perimeter of the island was a wall with several watchtowers, the tallest of which flew the Dayne’s family banner: a white sword and falling star crossed against a lilac field. Such castles were fit only to exist in song, Barristan thought—but Starfall proved them to be quite real.  
  
The port was located on the shore of the mainland—away from the island—where a larger village of smallfolk dwelt. Obviously its existence was to support the castle, serve as a port of entrance and exit for the road that led north further into the Red Mountains of Dorne, as well as a stopping point for sailors on their voyages between Oldtown and Plankytown. What likely kept it from growing even larger was the small number of people who lived beyond in the Red Mountains.  
  
There was no need to acquire horses for the short three mile trek from the port up the dirt road to the drawbridge that connected the island castle to the road and mainland, and Barristan found the walk invigorating after being cooped up on the ship that had been delayed by the strong winds of Shipbreaker Bay. Ser Willem found it a tad difficult to keep up, but Barristan made sure to wait for him when the distance became too large between them.  
  
Finally they arrived at the place where the drawbridge met the road. Upon their approach a horn was blown. It was currently raised, blocking the gate on the opposite side of the river, which was several feet below them from the slight cliff edge at which they stood. The gate had on either side tall watchtowers from which several archers and guards stood. One of these guards, dressed in a surcoat with the emblem of House Dayne upon it shouted to them:  
  
“Who goes there and what business brings you to Starfall?”  
  
“Good guard of the gate, I am Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, and my companion is Ser Willem Darry, lately the Master-at-Arms of the Red Keep. We have business with Lady Ashara of House Dayne, and would share it with no ears but hers.”  
  
There was a long silent pause after these words, Barristan felt the minutes pass as the guards talked amongst themselves and one of them left. This caused Ser Barristan to worry that something were amiss. But then a new figure at long last appeared upon the top of the watch tower—one dressed in a completely white armor. It took only a word for Barristan to recognize which of his brothers had come to Starfall.  
  
“Welcome, my brother,” called out Ser Oswell.  
  
“I would believe we welcome if the drawbridge were lowered, Ser Oswell,” added Ser Willem, who seemed tired of waiting as much as Barristan.  
  
Ser Oswell replied, “It will be once one thing is determined.”  
  
“And that is?” asked Barristan.  
  
“Long live King Aerys,” called Ser Oswell, and Barristan knew he was being tested. He would have to tread carefully here.  
  
“Aerys is dead by his own hands.”  
  
“And where were you?” asked Ser Oswell.  
  
 _Guarding the Queen._  
  
“Obeying his commands,” answered Barristan firmly.  
  
There was a pause, and then Ser Oswell called out, “Long live King Rhaegar, then.”  
  
“Nay, the Prince is dead, slain at the Kingswood… and where were you?” challenged Barristan  
  
“Obeying his commands… Long live King Aegon!”  
  
Barristan paused. He knew not how much Ser Oswell knew of the pretender babe, and so he knew that while he had to have been careful before, he knew what he said next would be the true test. For the sake of the realm, the Queen, and the Princesses, he took a breath and hated himself the moment he spoke:  
  
“Long live King Aegon.”  
  
Ser Oswell smiled, and then nodded to the gatekeeper, who signaled so that the drawbridge would be lowered. When it had settled upon the ground, Barristan and Ser Willem crossed it and the swiftly moving river beneath them. As they crossed the portcullis of the gate rose and the thick wooden doors of the gate opened to allow them to pass through.  
  
It was like entering one of the Seven Heavens—or what Barristan imagined entering one would be like. There he saw a large main path of smooth white pebbles—the same width as the gate, and plenty wide for a wheelhouse—meandered across a wide expanse of gardens approaching the main entrance to the castle, which was on the other side of the island. In between the gate and the main entrance of the castle were gardens unlike any Barristan had ever seen outside of the Red Keep. These were far lovelier though for they held a certain antique wildness to them that the prim order of the Red Keep’s gardens would find foreign. Branching off from the main path were several similar but smaller paths of pebbles, leading off through the flowers, trees, shrubs, vines, stone benches, bushes, fountains, and stoneworks. The gardens of Starfall all held to a wild beauty that Barristan had hardly taken notice to see—all that missed was for the gardens to be filled with chaste maidens with wreaths of flowers in their hair, sportive children at play, and young lovers cooing in one another’s ears. But these were absent from a song’s image of paradise made real, and suddenly Barristan could not help but how lonely these gardens felt to be so beautiful but absent of any to admire it.  
  
The guard that was to escort them into the castle was dismissed by Barristan’s white cloaked brother. Ser Oswell joined them at the foot of the watchtower and then walked with them towards the castle. As they did Ser Oswell asked them how they had managed to save the young prince’s life, and Barristan had the false honor of explaining not only the escape from the Red Keep but Lord Varys’ revelation as well. Ser Oswell was shocked to think that his new King had been here under the protection of Lady Dayne.  
  
“This is glad news indeed. Word had reached us that the entire royal family had been killed when wildfire destroyed the Red Keep,” said Ser Oswell as they climbed the steps of the main entrance to the castle.  
  
Barristan explained, “The Red Keep was not destroyed, only part of Maegor’s holdfast, from what I’ve heard confirmed. Ser Jaime, Ser Willem, and myself managed to escape with the Queen and Princesses.”  
  
“And what of your brother, Ser Willem?” asked Ser Oswell with some concern.  
  
“Jonothor died in the fire along with the King and Prince Viserys,” answered Ser Willem solemnly.  
  
Ser Oswell replied quietly, “Seven bless them all. He was a good man, and a true knight, Ser Willem.”  
  
And Ser Willem thanked him for his kind words. This of course led to the inevitable questioning of just why Ser Oswell was doing there if not to guard the life of the infant King. At this Ser Oswell grew silent and suggested that perhaps he ought to see the reason. And as such Ser Oswell, before leading them to the solar of the castle took them through many hallways until they came upon a wing of the castle that Barristan thought might have been one designed for the rearing of the Dayne children. This was confirmed when they passed a door and heard an infant scream from inside. Barristan thought it odd that Ser Oswell had thought nothing of hearing an infant scream, but then mayhaps the Lady Ashara had had her child that she had been found to be with before leaving the capital in shame. At the end of the hall was obviously a birthing chamber, which they entered in silence.  
  
Barristan was unprepared for the sight he saw behind that door—the she-wolf herself, the cause of the entire war, laid there big with child. Seven help them all, the Queen and Princess' plans for peace were undone.


	27. Lysa

**LYSA**  
  
Ever since she had been a small child, Lysa had had the weak, meek, and broken things in life. That’s all she had ever had. Being the second daughter, she often got the toys and clothes that Cat had already worn out or discarded. If she’d been a boy, more attention and more gold might have been spent on her. Instead her father—especially after the death of her mother—had decided to be frugal on certain things. She had once as a small child overheard her father and nuncle argue over the subject.  
  
 _Her father had said, “Cat’s old things are perfectly usable. Why spend more gold than I have to?”_  
  
 _“She’s just as much your daughter and deserving of her own things, Hoster!” countered her nuncle._  
  
 _Her father had insisted, “She will, when she is of age to have need of them. While she is yet a child and apt to go through clothes as quick as a pup becomes a dog, I see little reason why not to reuse what we already have. Cat has little need for them, Lysa does. You had all my old things when we were children, and it did you no harm.”_  
  
After hearing that, Lysa had simply accepted it as her fate for as long as she was but a child and Cat remained unmarried, she would simply get all of Cat’s old broken things. And she did, from toys, to dresses, to jewelry, to books, to kisses with Petyr, to Petyr himself. Cat would always have the better things in life, and toss what she did not want at Lysa’s feet. That is until Lysa herself was of age and the only lady of the house—that would be her time to shine, and like a lady in a song she would show everyone what a true gem had been hidden beneath the mounds of old broken things. She would even show Petyr… and he would forget Cat and love only her. When she had taken him into her bed after the duel with Brandon Stark, Lysa had thought that maybe then Petyr would forget Cat, but instead he called her by her sister’s name, and for Petyr’s pleasure she pretended to be Cat. One day Petyr would see her not as Cat’s replacement, she would be all that he desired, when she got all that she deserved.  
  
Petyr’s child had grown in her after he had taken her maidenhood. It was the first thing she was to have that hadn’t been Cat’s before. She let it grow, convinced that if she did, that this would convince Petyr to see her for her true worth. But her father discovered her and had forced her to drink moontea, turning the only thing, the only thing that had ever been solely hers into blood and sending Petyr away. She had cried for moons afterwards, for the loss of her child and Petyr. But she would find a way to get them back. She would do anything to get them back.  
  
Which is why, when she heard that she was to marry a Lord Paramount herself she was beside herself with joy. As a Lord Paramount’s wife she could convince him to find a place for Petyr—he had been sent back to his father’s house after her child had been murdered—with little prospects for himself. She would convince Petyr that she was worthy of him as Cat forgot about him and she helped him rise to a station that more suited his many talents. He would be grateful to her, and for once it seemed that Lysa might have something that Cat had not had before. In fact Cat in the situation had had to inherit the lesser, going from the obviously handsome and brutal Brandon Stark to a plain faced and broken Ned Stark. Then Lysa had learned that the Lord Paramount she was to marry was the old Jon Arryn, a man twelve namedays her father’s senior, and who was old enough to have been her mother’s father. It was not fair—she was not inheriting any of Cat’s things, she was practically a woman in her own right—the time her father had said would be when such things would be at an end, and yet still the Seven saw fit to continue to give her the old and broken things in life. She’d continue to play along with her father’s plans, for now. But one day… things would be very different.  
  
Then she’d discovered that her husband was dead upon the battlefield. On one end she mourned the loss of her opportunity to strike back through her husband at her father, but on the other hand she was glad that she no longer had to sleep with the quiet old man.  
  
She then came to King’s Landing along with Cat when their father had been named Hand of the King, and there she had found to her delight, the young men of the court who were all attentive to a Lady widow. It was in her Lord husband’s death that she had found his preeminent advantage—for it certainly had not been in the bedroom. And so she played the part of grieving widow in public while receiving these attentions. Cat thought it improper, but she was a married woman now, big with her plain faced husband’s likely plain faced child. Cat had had her fun at Riverrun, now it was Lysa’s turn.  
  
Then she had met _him_ , the inheritor of her late husband’s title and lands, whom one night father had told her she would marry after a respectable period of mourning. It seemed that she was still to be the wife of a Lord Paramount after all. At first she had thought that like Cat she would be inheriting a lesser broken thing—but now that she had seen and come to know Lord Denys broken by grief he may be, but lesser or old? No. He was none of those things. He was handsome, gallant to a fault, young but old enough to have survived the recent deaths of a wife and child, which seemed to press hard on him. In a way he almost reminded her of Petyr—a boy from a lesser house, from a family who cared little if he lived or died, who instead had been sent to be raised with those of better standings than he had dreamed of. But where Petyr had been punished by her father and sent away, her late husband had nourished and helped her soon-to-be husband to grow. Lord Denys was the man Petyr had always wished to become, and thus he was the perfect man to help her help Petyr.  
  
They hardly spoke at first of one another. At first Lord Denys spoke of her late husband, explaining what a good man he had been, and making Lysa feel very ashamed for having thought the things she had at hearing of his demise. Lord Arryn had been a better man than her father had been in similar situations. He would have helped her help Petyr and would have treated her well. And what had she done in return but prayed to the Stranger to take him. She now prayed to the Father for forgiveness and mercy in her rash act. She had been stupid—so caught up with thoughts of Petyr and her father that she had not seen how she could have been blessed with the old Lord Arryn. She prayed to the Stranger that her former husband might find the peace in the next world he had not known in this one, and she most of all prayed to the Crone for wisdom, as she now knew she had little of it to not see things for what they plainly were. She would not be so foolish again.  
  
Soon other topics came up between them, they spoke of their childhoods soon enough, and from that Lysa learned just how similar a situation he and Petyr had had. Petyr had oft talked about feeling out of place in a Lord Paramount’s home, being just a Fingerlord’s son. While Denys spoke of being the poorer relation to his cousin and his wards. Her father had heaped nothing but criticisms upon poor Petyr—comparing him in everything to the father who had sent Petyr away. Denys instead had been given the proper encouragement and support that a father truly should give his children—all his children.  
  
She spoke of Riverrun and during these times she was careful with how she spoke of Petyr, trying to lay down the foundations for him to see Petyr as she saw him, a boy who just like him needed help in reaching his full potential. Denys asked her of her father and Cat, and to a point she spoke the truth, though whenever she spoke of the little grievances she had held through the years, Denys had countered with:  
  
“But still, you love them not, don’t you? I would have loved to have had a brother and sister growing up as you had.”  
  
Making Lysa reflect on how lonely it was to be without any close family at all.   
  
Through all their talks she was beginning to grow fond of Denys. He had handsome features. His sharp nose and jaw, his windswept hair of a honey blond hue, and his sky blue eyes all came together to form some of her favorite sights to look upon in King’s Landing. His body was strong looking, well-formed no doubt from all the tournaments he’d been in through the years. Cat’s husband, the broken Ned Stark, was a monster on the battlefield—everyone spoke of it in hushed tones, with pity that she should be wed to such a man when Cat entered and left a room. Stark was driven to mindless bloodshed through his grief. Denys in comparison knew better how to handle grief. He was still affected by it—this she knew since the subject of his former wife and child was yet a thing they had talked of—but he was not ruled by it. It spoke of Denys’ true nature. He had the ability to love and respect, something her former husband had cultivated in him that obviously Cat’s savage husband had not taken care to learn.  
  
When the war was finished, the King’s bride discovered and crowned Queen, a tournament would be held in honor of her father’s ascendancy to the position of Hand. It was agreed that there would be when she would come out of her mourning and her engagement to Denys would be made public. But as she thought more and more towards that future to come she pondered beyond that what else might occur in those days of revelry? In her dreams, Denys would ride and she would tie her favor to his lance. Mayhaps he would win the tournament in her name. She would then be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty. And in earning these things she would be generous, kind, and courteous. For finally she would have something Cat never would have had before: a life like a song.


	28. Lyanna II

**LYANNA**  
  
The room was dark, but she could see shadows standing all around her. It was as if a person’s shadow were able to stand on its own without any owner to cast it and it stood free from any surface. Night and day they stood about her, watching. She heard them whisper, never anything she could quite make out, but she heard them. Sometimes though, figures stepped forth from the crowd of shadows that surrounded her and took on faces both familiar and unfamiliar.  
  
The first familiar face to appear before her was when her mother, Lady Lynessa Stark, came and sat on the end of the bed. Mother had died in childbirth along with the babe after Benjen—Lyanna had been but five. But here she sat, as fresh faced as she had been after Benjen, but before the other babe had come and seem to have eaten her alive from the inside out. She sat as Lyanna had always thought of her, in her lovely blue gown—her mother’s favorite color—with her hair long and flowing. Along with her appeared her father’s mother, who had died but a year after her mother.  
  
“Oh my little wolf pup… what a mess you have gotten yourself into,” sighed her mother as she reached out and held her hand.  
  
“I told her that her wolf’s blood would be her undoing, and now she seems apt to prove me right my goddaughter,” said her grandmother, dressed all in black, as she had in life since the death of her husband.  
  
“My son will avenge me and right what wrongs I have committed,” stated Lyanna, confident in the life growing within her.  
  
“You should right your own wrongs, child,” scolded her grandmother.  
  
“I am not a child, not while I have one growing inside of me,” insisted Lyanna  
  
“While you still leave your wrongs to be righted by others, you remain a child,” declared her grandmother with a scowl.  
  
“I left her too soon, goodmother,” regarded her mother as she shook her head and looked away from her.  
  
Her grandmother added, “Aye you did… but the gods demanded it, and so it had to be done.”  
  
“I’ll do what, mother?” asked another figure, this of a young man, who stepped forward—but he was not her son, her son would not have that hair or those eyes!  
  
“You belong here not, Eddrick! Return to the shadows, boy, or you’ll frighten her,” admonished her grandmother.  
  
“Eddrick?” asked Lyanna with curiosity… aye, that was a fine name for a son of hers.  
  
“I’m here, mother,” said the shadow of the young man, once again kneeling at her bedside. He took her other hand, so now both of her hands felt as cold as ice. She looked at him again, past his hair and eyes and saw the face of a Stark staring back at her.  
  
At long last she said, “You look fairly young, my son to be standing amongst the dead…”  
  
“He is not yet born, nor will he be for some time,” answered her mother.  
  
“There is no distinction between the time to come and the time that has been here,” answered Eddrick.  
  
“I cannot seem to understand what you say…” answered Lyanna  
  
“As you are living, of course you would not, the living never do,” answered her grandmother sourly.  
  
“How then am I able to speak with you then?”  
  
At this none of the apparitions seemed to want to speak. It was then that a new apparition came forth, that of Ser Arthur Dayne, holding an infant boy in his arms—her son! He stayed but a short time, but in that time, her mother, grandmother, and son were silent., only speaking once he again had left.  
  
Lyanna commented after they had left, “My son to come has been brought to me by a man who loathes my existence…”  
  
“He’s not—” began Eddrick.  
  
“Let her think of it like that a little longer, Eddrick,” insisted her mother.  
  
“Think on what?” asked Lyanna.  
  
“Hush, my dear wolf pup, let us worry of what is to come and what has happened, you just lay back and relax, my wolf pup,” soothed her mother, and Lyanna felt her eyes grow heavy as she drifted off to sleep.  
  
When she awoke standing at the foot of her bed was now the green burning vision of her father, and the bloody collared vision of her eldest brother, Brandon, whose blood dribbled down from his neck. She screamed when she saw them, scared at the sight of their horrors. This was not the first time she had seen them, but each time they did appear as they did when they died, and Lyanna swore she could feel the flames about her skin and the choker about her own neck. Her screams drew the attention of a servant—who she knew was no dream—who entered the room and dispersed the shadow visions for the moment. Just as soon as the servant had left the faceless black shadows returned.  
  
Rhaegar appeared to her one night. He spoke not to her but to her unborn child—never calling it by name once—which Lyanna thought was odd. But what frightened her like none other was the sight of a man man who wore a mask, with a bronze sword, swinging it right at her unborn son’s bulge, who appeared this time with an old man and woman who stood speaking in a language she understood not. Along with them stood the old King, engulfed as her father was in flames, which poured from his mouth and spread about the room.  
  
Immediately after he had passed through his sword through her middle—she felt an icy chill engulf her womb. Immediately she felt a clawing pain inside of her. Gods, help her, the pain was real—very real—she screamed out in horror once again, this time as she felt as though her insides were being drug out of her. Gods the pain… the pain! And then it stopped as fast as it had started… but only to return once her guard had been let down. Her vision turned red, she saw nothing but blood pour into the room, filling it, and her drowning in it. And all through it she felt the pain... nothing but the pain, as she screamed.


	29. Stannis II

**STANNIS**  
  
When he awoke he did not recall where he was or how he had gotten there—all that he could think of was how hungry he was. Eventually this need was satiated when an onion broth was brought and fed to him. He was too weak to even hold the spoon and bowl without spilling the broth on himself. The red-haired man… Corbray? No… Cortnay… Cortnay Penrose, fed him.  
  
“You should not have exerted yourself with that axe, my lord,” scolded Ser Cortnay as he gingerly held the spoon out for Stannis to sip from.  
  
 _Axe? What axe?_  
  
Hazy memories of a man with only eight fingers faded in and out of his grasp. They were too fleeting to hold onto.  
  
Stannis was confused, and the only way to get answers was to ask, “What happened?”  
  
Ser Cortnay refilled the spoon with broth, this time catching a bit of soft onion for Stannis to have in addition to the broth. As took this next offering, Ser Cortnay replied, “You fainted not long after showing that smuggler a… form of justice with the axe. After which you made it as far as your solar and then simply collapsed. You might not have been noticed for a few hours had your brother not discovered you. Funnily enough, the axe was still in your hands. You’re lucky you didn’t split yourself open when you fell with it.”  
  
His thoughts were still a jumbled mess, but the story his castellan spoke began to take shape in his head as he comprehended, “I fainted?”  
  
Ser Cortnay nodded his head, and offered the spoon yet again as he said, “Aye, but I would not hold that against yourself—a lesser man would’ve been dead a long time ago. If you don’t mind my saying so, my lord, during the siege it was rather noble of you, to sacrifice so much for your brother and people—believe me, before you set fire to that cart, that alone had kept the castle alive with the determination to continue the siege—even if the Stranger was sharing our beds each night. But the siege is now over my lord, and your body needs more than just the meager helpings you gave it. Contrary to the opinion of others, you are a man, like any other—you are not made of stone… and a man can only go so far denying himself the largess what he needs to live. I truly know not how you’ve managed to keep going for the months you have on the meager portions you’ve allowed yourself—most would have died, of that I’m sure. Come now, eat a bit more broth.”  
  
Ser Cortnay certainly was insistent that he eat, but Stannis felt his stomach turn at the thought of yet another spoonful of the onion broth, and he said, “If I eat any more I won’t be able to keep it down, I think.”  
  
The red-haired knight smiled and then set down the bowl and spoon on the small table next to Stannis’ bed and said, “Ahh… well, I’ll leave it here for the moment then, my lord, and you can have more of it later if you so desire—though I will warn you against letting it sit for too long, broths and soups are not good cold. I will return later to take whatever is left to the kitchen.”  
  
 _He will return… would anyone else?_  
  
A thought flitted through his head, that of servants leaving in droves, Renly running off with Robert’s other brother, his parents’ boat tossing amongst the stormy waters of Shipbreaker Bay and crashed against its rocks. Him alone… totally alone.  
  
These thoughts led Stannis to rather unceremoniously asking, “Ser Cortnay why are you here?”  
  
Ser Cortnay looked at him for a moment before responding, “You’re too weak to feed yourself, my lord.”  
  
Stannis shook his head—he did not mean that at all. He then said, “No… why didn’t you leave with the others after…?”  
  
 _After I burned that food…_  
  
Recognition dawned upon Ser Cortnay’s face and he responded: “Ahh, I see your meaning. To be honest, someone needs look after you and the young Lord Renly.”  
  
“I am a man grown,” insisted Stannis weakly.  
  
Ser Cortnay, who was a several years older than Robert, chuckled, stood, and then responded, “Aye, you are, and have done much for others at the expense of yourself. Now the time has come for others to take care of you like you did them. Recover yourself, my lord. Starvation does many things to the mind and body of a man—none of which are of any benefit—only time and rest will take them away.”  
  
 _Sleep? Yes… sleeping was a good idea…_  
  
Already Stannis’ eyes began to droop as Ser Cortnay finished speaking. Soon everything was dark again. When he awoke later he heard the fumbling voice of a child as he tried to read aloud.  
  
 _Renly…_  
  
Stannis cracked one eye—the one closest to the voice—open and indeed saw his little brother sitting by his bed, the large book of tales of the Storm Kings of old opened and awkwardly too big for Renly to hold normally. So he leaned it against Stannis’ bed and body, his face focused solely on the words on the page that he barely could fit together to read. Surely this must be a dream… Renly had talked of running off with the wolf… what was his name? Blood Wolf? That sounded about right.   
  
The current tale Renly told, if Stannis recognized it right was about King Pyerce Durrandon—the Storm King who stood against the Ironborn when they began turning their sights to the rich fertile lands of what was now the Riverlands---but then was part of the Stormlands’ domains. The man seemed to have been made of stone to have stood against the Ironborn. Unfortunately his greatest strength also proved to have been his greatest weakness as he had been so unmovable that he’d been predictable—and thus an easy target for the Ironborn to eventually assassinate before meeting battle with Pyerce’s second son, Trynton the Unready.  
  
“And as he… stoob… upon the… walls of… Seaguard he—”  
  
“Stood… not stoob,” corrected Stannis weakly.  
  
“Right. He stoo— _duh_ upon the walls—” and Renly stopped in the middle of his sentence and his head shot up with his eyes meeting’ Stannis’. A look of relief seemed to enter the young toddler’s eyes—much to Stannis’ surprise. Renly dropped the book and leapt onto the bed, greeting Stannis’ awakening with as much joy a boy nearly five name days seemed apt to have. As Renly burrowed himself next to Stannis in a clingy hug, Stannis felt at once scared of what to do next, and somewhat happy. It was not a dream, his brother was _his_ after all.


	30. Ashara

  
**ASHARA**

When she awoke, it was night and she felt terribly cold—as though a Crownland winter had descended upon her room in Starfall. After pulling the light covers tighter against her shivering skin, she tried to think of anything else but the cold.

How had she awoken? Had it been the cold? She instinctually knew that _No…_ was the answer to the latter.

There was a moment or two of confusion until it registered just what exactly _had_ awoken her—screaming. The screaming echoed through the halls and into her room.

Ashara’s first thoughts were of Arthur—was he safe? Did he scream? She was still too drowsy to determine the difference of pitch or tone to the scream, so her mind ran quickly to the worst of all conclusions. Her brother had fallen and reopened his chest wound, and now was laying upon his floor, bleeding to death. Horrified at this thought, Ashara roused herself. She had to help Arthur!

And so through the cold and increasing numbness she felt, Ashara shrugged on her heaviest silk shift and with an oil lamp in her hands, she tottered out constantly in pain on unsteady feet. The further from her room she got, the easier it became to distinguish between where the screaming was coming from in Starfall. The screams came not from the direction of Arthur’s chambers. Instead they came from the nursery wing.

_The babes!_

Thankfully the nursery was far closer than Arthur’s chambers. What truly marked Ashara as odd was that she had not yet encountered any sign of life in the castle at all. It was as though the entire castle had been abandoned while she slept. When she at last reached the nursery wing curiously enough Ashara found that the nursery door itself was closed—as were all the other doors in the nursery wing.

_Odd, extremely odd…_

Eager to be sure of her son’s safety, Ashara opened the door and peered inside. Instantly a strong mixed odor of Chamomile, Poppies, and Peppermint overwhelmed her smell and another wave of drowsiness she had not known since leaving her room washed over her. There was sleep incense burning! And if she did not close the door immediately, she would collapse asleep dead away. But she had to see if her son fared well! In the brief instant she allowed herself to look into the drugged nursery, she saw Wylla asleep in her chair, with both boys asleep in her arms—all three seeming to dream something peaceful by the contented looks upon each of their faces. Ashara closed the door as quickly as she could in her weakened state—exhausting all of her strength in doing so. When at long last the task had been completed Ashara sighed briefly with a bit of relief. She leaned against the door and then slid on her side down it to the ground.

And through all of this, the screams did continue, but it was only now that she was able to distinguish that the screams sounded awfully similar to what child birthing would sound like when her time to give birth to child had come from the birthing room. Almost immediately she reckoned that it might be… _oh Seven help me, Ned’s sister!_ But it was far too early for her to be giving birth now—far too early.

Half-curious and half-terrified for what she would find behind that door—Ashara pulled herself up off the ground and hobbled over to the door leading to the birthing chamber. Aye, the screams came from that room. When Ashara finally found her strength to continue on into the chamber, she was first greeted by the foul smell of myrrh, frankincense and roses, with a distinctive smell of angelica and coltsfoot in the mixture—two very powerful herbs that should never be burned together! On occasion Amyrilla would burn one or the other if she were interested in communing with Mother Rhoyne or to see a vision of what was to come—but she had clearly warned Ashara that to mix angelica and coltsfoot would be irresponsible and bring naught but trouble.

At the foot of the bed half-standing and half-huddled over a basket, was Minara, Ashara’s own servant that she had brought from the Crownlands. Minara had faithfully followed her, even after Ashara had told her to return. She had traveled with her when fleeing the capital when Ashara was only beginning to show signs of being pregnant. If it had been discovered she’d been with Ned’s child so soon after his father’s and Brandon’s deaths, she would have been held hostage to try and stop the rebellion in its tracks. And after seeing Brandon strangle himself to death as he struggled to reach the sword just out of his reach to rescue his burning father, Ashara had wanted the rebellion to succeed if for no other reason than to see Aerys meet an end deserving a tyrant and that Ned would live.

And now Ned’s sister lay on the bed screaming wildly as blood poured from her. For a fleeting second seemed as though a waterfall of blood poured forth from Lyanna—but in the blink of an eye it had vanished. The incense! It would drive her to see visions of things that weren’t there if she stayed too long, which it seemed Minara had. Minara was mumbling wildly in a language that resembled Valyrian that Ashara could not quite understand, and looking wildly about as though frightened of something. Furthermore, though Ashara had entered the room, neither she nor Lyanna seemed to have recognized her having done so. Were the visions that strong that one could not distinguish them from reality? As the waterfall of blood again appeared and disappeared Ashara knew that something had to be done about the incense.

With some effort, Ashara moved towards the burner, which held a coil of pressed herbs that burned slowly. Picking up the burner, Ashara staggered to the window and with some force opened it and pushed the burner through it. The clattering of metal hitting the stone below reassured her that she had indeed done the right thing. She left the window open with hopes that the fresh air would soon dissipate the noxious fumes left behind. But as she turned around, Ashara could see that she might have already smelled too much of the mixture for her own good as the room seemed to float in unending darkness—the floors gone and nothing but stars surrounded her, Minara, and Lyanna. Stars which moved in such intrinsic patterns that they seemed to dance… and as they danced, Ashara thought she heard them whisper. Another scream from Lyanna brought Ashara to her senses.

_No. They aren’t real._

Lyanna was in labor and needed her help. Minara easily stood aside, fading into a comet that passed. It was then that Ashara saw that the head of the babe was crowning, and Ashara did her best to urge Lyanna to push. Soon with much effort from Lyanna, the tiny body slid out and into Ashara’s waiting arms. And the sight could not have been more terrifying. The babe was deformed—scales like a lizard, a snout and fangs like a wolf, and long claws, which sunk into the flesh of Ashara’s arms.

She fainted not soon after.


	31. Jason

**JASON**

 

When Driftmark was far enough behind them, the Queen dowager had turned to him and spoke plainly, in a low whisper of a voice.

 

“If you are to join me on Dragonstone, it won’t be as the honorable Lord Jason Mallister, champion of tournaments.”

 

“It will not?” asked Jason

 

She lowered her head as she answered, as though she were pained to admit what she had to, “Unfortunately your liege lord was all too right about others misusing myself and my family for their own ends. Luckily we’ve discovered the plot and want to… well nip it in the bud, as the old Reach phrase goes.”

 

He asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

 

She took a few moments to gather herself and lean closer to him before answering in an even softer whisper, “Because, Lord Jason, I’ve seen you at those tournaments—you almost unseated my son at Storm’s End once, if you hadn’t purposely lost and don’t deny that, my son was many things but he would not have won any tourneys had he not been born a prince—and so I believe you to be an honorable man and a true knight. I would have you help my family bring about the end to this plot.”

 

_Plots, what of your own plots?_

 

“How do I know this isn’t some trap to find an excuse to execute me once I set foot on Dragonstone?”

 

She freely admitted, “You don’t, but if you show up on Dragonstone looking like Lord Jason Mallister, your life won’t be the only one in danger—mine will be so as well, so it’s either that or I have you swim back to Driftmark—which I would not suggest in all that armor—or you take a risk and trust me.”

 

“Or I commandeer this boat and steer it all the way to King’s Landing,” he countered.

 

She gave a small laugh before saying, “You could very well do that. Which is why I must say that you have the upper hand in this situation as I doubt the fisherman would truly care where he sailed to as long as we eventually depart his boat.”

 

They had time yet before they arrived at Dragonstone, so he said, “If there is a plot, tell it to me.”

 

The Queen looked briefly at the fisherman on the other side of the boat before returning her eyes and whispers to him, “In front of a fisherman with perfectly fine ears? Do you truly think me a fool, Lord Mallister?”

 

“And yet you approached me in front of the very same fisherman,” he countered.

 

“When one is cornered, one does many things which to others who have the luxury of choice, seem rather foolish,” answered the Queen.

 

To answer this, Jason took his sword and with his handle knocked the fisherman unconscious and took control of his boat from him.

 

He spoke freely as he adjusted the rudder an pulled taught on the main sheet line, collecting more wind with the sail and making them sail just a bit faster—more his usual speed in a boat this size, “I’d say you’re cornered enough, your grace—and without ears to hear you if you speak plain.”

 

“A lesser man simply would’ve tossed the fisherman off the boat,” regarded the Queen with some respect.

 

He answered plainly, stating, “Aye, but a man might have more than one mouth to feed.”

 

The Queen dowager sighed, and then said, “True. All right, Lord Mallister, I’ll tell you the truth—the entire truth.”

 

And so the dowager dragon Queen sung. She sung a song of her unconscious escape with her gooddaughter and granddaughter from King’s Landing—of the Spider’s supposed switch of the young infant prince, and of how the Princess Elia knew he lied. She also sung of how she and the Princess plotted to bring down the Spider’s web from within it, a feat that Jason had never seen a fly yet perform.

 

“If you are so worried about Lord Varys and his plans, why not just kill him and be done with the ruse?” asked Jason.

 

“If Elia is correct, then the man is but one face of a larger scheme—the child had to come from somewhere, and if he falls—others may come to take his place. Besides which the eunuch has ears and eyes everywhere—almost as many as Bloodraven had.”

 

“And how then, can I help you with your little scheme?” asked Jason.

 

The Queen looked rather lost as she spoke, “In truth I know not at the moment, but I will know how when the time arises.”

 

Once arriving upon Dragonstone, they went immediately to a small hut that the Queen explained was home to the only friend she had in the world: Arella, a woman about the Queen’s age, who was surely one of the many dragonseed he had heard tales of living on Dragonstone. He was quickly invited to change his clothes for ones more apropos for the servant Daenon that Jason was to pass himself for. His own armor and clothes he took with him in a satchel—as he would likely need them one day, the Queen explained.

 

When asked about Arella, who had obviously given some of what little clothing her husband wore on what seemed to Jason to be a whim, the Queen dowager explained rather simply: “We played together as girls when I lived on this island—until my lord father discovered her and brought me to King’s Landing.”

 

Clothes made acting the part of a servant rather easier, Jason found. Without his white eagle upon his chest, Jason found the world to be far different—he was overlooked as he walked, spoken about even when he was fully present, and often ignored rather carelessly by others who presumed themselves to be of higher birth than Jason pretended to be. All in all, Jason found the experience of being the Queen’s personal servant to be an education in itself of just the life of one of his own—and Jason vowed to treat his servants better when he returned to Seaguard. For a servant’s life seemed to be one consisting of always cleaning up after the messes of his or her masters, and it seemed the higher the lord the bigger the mess they left in their wake.

 

Jason’s opportunity to be of assistance to the Queen had appeared far sooner than either of them had anticipated. One evening, while cleaning up after an evening’s entertainment upon the terrace, Jason happened to come across a letter that had seemingly been carelessly forgotten in a stack of papers that Lord Varys had brought for the Queen and Princess’ attention—trying to goad them into making that journey to Pentos as much as he could.

 

The letter itself was short and anonymous.

 

_I have sent the wine you have requested and expect you and the red dragons in my palace before the moon has turned. If all goes as you say, then our black dragon is lost to us. No matter, there will be another to eventually take his place._

 

Jason knew not how to interpret the letter but he immediately knew that the Queen and Princesses were in danger of it and some wine. Jason went directly to the Queen and Princess Elia with the letter in his hand. The Queen grew pale after having read its contents—the Princess instead becoming furious.

 

“We need to act now,” insisted Jason.

 

The Queen was silent, but Elia seemed to become focused when he said this, turning directly to her last Kingsguard available to her. She reminded him, “Ser Jaime, you know what we agreed upon.”

 

“It shall be done, my princess,” agreed the white cloak and with a slight bow he was gone.

 

“Daenon, it is time to become the white eagle once again,” said the Queen quietly.

 

Jason smiled and took the armor he had hid in her room and donned it once again. When he had finished doing so, Ser Jaime returned with a look of shock on his face.

 

“What is wrong, Ser Jaime?” asked the Princess.

 

Ser Jaime spoke while trying to catch his breath—as though he had run from the other end of the castle to tell what he had come to say, “Lord Varys is fled… with the Princess!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the next chapter will be a long awaited Ned POV.


	32. Eddard III

  
**EDDARD**

Ned arrived at the village port of Starfall in the rising heat of the late morning sun. His Northern men were tired from the travel through the heat—clearly out of their element. Ned knew not how Dornishmen could stand this weather. Thankfully there was a bit of a sea breeze that occasionally came through the river valley and eased their suffering as they traveled through the small village and up the road to Starfall. They should have waited for dark before coming, but Ned had not wanted to lose any time. The decision to come to Starfall seemed more prudent now—instead of riding straight for the Tower of Joy, he could ask Ashara now how best to avoid a bloody fight with her brother. He was tired of all the blood and the killing—Tarly’s men had taken the last of any fight out of him. The man had sprung an attack, rushing in after hiding his men in the trees. It had been a senseless bloody fight—and if Ned hadn’t brought his whole Northern force with him, he might have died that day—as it was many Northern men wouldn’t be returning home. Stouts, Slates, Blackmyres, Crowls, Stanes, Harclays, Wells, Longs, Whitehills, Lakes, and Watermans. Howland had nearly died—stepping in with his pronged spear just as one of Tarly’s men was about to cut Ned down from behind. To look at his friend now—one would hardly know he suffered from any wound at all, let alone a big gash that had taken part of his shoulder.

_Gods preserve my people, and see us and Lyanna safely home._

Upon the road to Starfall, they encountered a woman who was brown of hair who held two bundles in her arms. She had little else, or so it seemed to Ned as they approached her. The woman froze upon seeing Ned and his men trekking up the road, a look of terror seized her face and then she fainted. Immediately Ned and his men went to assist the lady. The bundles contained one babe who squelched loudly, clenching his eyes and fists closed and messed his silvery blonde hair as he flailed about. The other was a girl who appeared newly born, having flaky skin and a deathly pale complexion. The woman oddly enough could not be roused, so Ned took the babes himself, his men the woman, and they set for Starfall—they would likely have a wet nurse for the infants, as oddly enough the woman did not seem to be the mother as she quite obviously had no milk to give them.

_Harrenhal was large and looming—a sight to behold and take in. The tournament full of more splendor and ceremony than most he had attended in the Vale, and much more festive. Tents and pavilions had been set up all across the rolling fields surrounding the castle. To Ned it appeared as though an army was encamped outside the great castle’s gates and ready to siege it. Above tents and pavilions Ned recognized the banners of many houses from all across the seven kingdoms—great, noble, and knightly._

 

Starfall was everything Ned could imagine it to be and more. Ned thought that Lyanna would like to see it on the return trip. When they came to the drawbridge entrance to Starfall, Ned was surprised to find the drawbridge down and the guards slumped over dead to the world in a deep slumber that even prodding from his own men seemed unable to wake them from.

Howland examined a few closely, then reported to Ned, “They’ve been drugged, my lord. Nothing too serious, but I’d hate to think why this happened.”

_Drugged? Gods… Ashara!_

“What should we do, my lord?” asked Ethan

What should they do indeed? Gods, Ned knew not. On one hand they had not been allowed in, but on the other he could not just leave the castle open and defenseless like this. Finally Ned took the only solution that he could think of to deal with the issue. It was the simplest one, truly.

“We wake the castle,” replied Ned.

It was after that that Ned handed the babes to Howland and hurriedly led his men into the castle. They went from room to room, all the doors within the castle had been closed, finding the air in each room had been drugged with incense to promote sleep—as Howland suggested based on the herbs used. It was almost like something out of a song, where an entire castle had been cursed into a deep slumber. Ned did not feel rather much like a hero, going from room to room, trying to find Ashara, and trying to relieve the effects of the incense best they could. His men covered their noses and their mouths and pulled all the people out from where they had fallen in the middle of tasks, into hallways and unscented rooms. Why had they been drugged?

_Inane songs sung by minstrels would’ve said that lovers meet across a crowded room—Ned had seen Ashara across an open field, walking with the Princess as one of her ladies-in-waiting to see the Red Viper joust. The first thing that had caught his attention about her was her eyes, her laughing violet eyes. They seemed to Ned like they shimmered like the emblem of her house. Gods, he was starting to sound like one of those minstrels. Across that field, there had been nothing between him and her, except his self-consciousness. She met his eyes and Ned kept his gaze upon hers until she had to move on with the Princess. But still those laughing violet eyes haunted him long after they had departed._

To their greatest surprise they found three of the five missing Kingsguard. Jonothor Darry was known to have died at the Red Keep, Prince Lewyn had died at the Kingswood—his goodfather and Denys insisting on treating the body well so they could return it to Dorne with hopes of negotiating a peace. That had left Ser Barristan, Ser Oswell, Ser Arthur, Ser Gerold, and Ser Jaime. Only the last two were not present here in Starfall…and Ashara had said her brother had guarded— _Lyanna!_

_The great hall of Harrenhal—fit to seat likely half of a kingdom it seemed—was alive with candlelight, music, tapestries, wine, food, and dancing. There was far far too much dancing for Ned’s comfort. In the end it was all Brandon’s fault, after teasing him unmercifully about “his girl”._

_“Another man will steal her right out form under you, if you’re not careful, Ned. If you want to dance with the lady, you have to ask her—a woman cannot read your mind or glances, Ned. Or do you fancy yourself the maid?”_

_Ned had shoved Brandon for that comment, only earning a laugh from him and Robert._

_“Ned’s too frozen for a girl. I’ve tried everything to get him to get his cock whetted, but he remains as frozen as that bloody Wall you have up there,” added Robert, after what was probably a bit too much wine already. Ned was ready to kill Robert for saying that out loud—thankfully Benjen was off somewhere and Lyanna was dancing or else he’d never hear the end of it. Little Howland Reed sat observing the whole thing, as though he were trying to put everything that occurred to memory—but then again the crannogman had never been to any kind of tournament before._

_Brandon snorted at this and then giving Ned a playful shove of his own, “Really? Well, forgive me little brother. I knew not how much the blushing virgin you were.”_

_Robert after this seemed to notice Howland for the first time all night, “Say, Howland, you got women in your bogs?”_

_Howland answered calmly, betraying little emotion, “Aye, I’m betrothed and due to marry when I return to Greywater Watch.”_

_“So this is your last time out before being married then?” asked Brandon_

_“Gods, why didn’t you say something!” exclaimed Robert_

_As the conversation thankfully drifted away from him, Ned caught a look at Ashara, dancing with Ser Barristan round the circle formation that the dancers had formed. She moved gracefully, her hair shimmering in the candlelight as though it were the sun on the surface of rippling water in a lake. His eyes followed her as she glided across the floor like a star across the sky. Then after some time, the song was over and another man stepped forward to ask for the Lady’s hand to dance. It was only after a few moments did Ned recognize that the other man was in fact his brother Brandon. Ned looked to where his brother had been sitting, finding it empty—gods! Did his brother have no shame at all? Apparently not. He was the other men he had been talking about. Just as he had about settled on this fact, feeling rather gloomy about it, a clear voice interrupted his reverie._

_“Lord Eddard, your brother says you wish to dance with me?” asked Ashara with a voice so beautiful Ned felt his own heart stop still for a moment. Brandon looked at him with a cocksure glance that Ned wanted to punch right off his face._

_Then realizing that he was expected to answer, and hearing the drum beats which called attention to the fact that another song was soon to begin, Ned stood up rather too quickly and without thinking answered, “Aye, I would. I—if it would please you, my lady.”_

_Ashara smiled at him—he at first wasn’t sure if it was because of how he came off or if she truly liked the idea—when she held out her hand and agreed that it would indeed give her much pleasure, Ned took her hand and led her onto the dance floor, where two lines of dancers were forming._

It wasn’t until they came to what Ned suspect was the nursery wing that he had found them—both of them lying unconscious in the birthing chamber. Lyanna, upon a bed of dried blood that came from the lower parts of her exposed shift, and Ashara fainted upon the floor, her hands caked in his sister’s blood. The mere sight horrified and froze Ned in his place. Lyanna had been pregnant… _the dragon had kidnapped and raped her!_ In this moment Ned regretted not one swing that Robert had given the damnable monster.

And Ashara… gods, she looked paler than he last recalled her looking. He checked Lyanna—her pulse was steady, though she felt quite cold. He then dashed to Ashara—she too was cold, but her pulse was quite weak. Both needed a Maester’s care, rest and warmth—and they weren’t going to get the latter laying out exposed in a room with the window open—no matter how damn hot it was. The Maester was likely in the process of being woken up, so Ned would have to give them what he could until the man arrived.

_After the dance had finished—Ned not having made too big of a fool of himself thankfully—Ashara and Ned had wandered off into the godswood outside of the great hall. Their conversation began roughly at first, but still quite eagerly. Growing up in the Eyrie with Robert had given Ned ample opportunity to see how Robert wooed a woman. Robert’s overt forwardness towards women had caused a reaction in Ned, to try and be better to them far more than the lewd responses of his friend and near-brother. As such his determination to treat women better had led to Ned feeling rather awkward around a lady. And his desire to be highly honorable conflicted with the other thoughts which entered his mind, especially now. Ned could not help but feel at once immensely glad and guilty of the thoughts which strolled through his mind. He tried chastising himself into being a bit more honorable in his thoughts. A lady should be thought of better than this. But in speaking with Ashara, Ned soon found that he could lay aside his awkwardness after admitting it, and then like a floodgate having been released, Ned found himself conversing with Ashara on many things. They spoke of many things, their homelands, their family, their castles, and other such matters. Eventually they found themselves meandering out of the godswood and out into the sea of tents beyond the castle walls._

After Ned had tucked his sister and Ashara into two beds that shared the same room not too far from the birthing chamber—ones probably provided for the wetnurses most likely—Howland called to him, asking that he come immediately. Nothing prepared him for what he found upon entering the nursery proper. The wetnurse had fallen asleep nursing it seemed, for both her breasts seemed exposed. Ned gave the woman her decency back by throwing a blanket over her. The other two babes that they had brought up to the castle were placed in the cribs—Ned noticed there were two, with a third half assembled, and oddly enough three babes to go in them. The woman on the road must have been escaping with the babes—but for what purpose? Why was she the only one left awake? Had she been escaping, and if so to where and for what purpose?

But none of that was the reason Howland had called him in there.

“My lord, this one looks exactly like you,” said Howland warmly as he held the third, sleeping babe in his arms for Ned to see. Looking at the tiny body, Ned felt himself freeze for the second time that day. Ned vaguely remembered looking upon his baby brother Benjen when he’d been young, and sleeping in Howland’s arms was another such Stark babe that could have been mistaken for yet another baby brother. But… how? _Oh… gods!_

_It did not take him long to realize that she had led him to her tent—at first he had been insistent upon his honor, but a kiss—a single kiss had undone him. After the first kiss a shower of kisses like falling stars came after. In such a shower everything that he thought had mattered fell away as only this moment, here and now mattered._

Any doubts of what lay within his own arms at that moment that might have crept into Ned’s mind were completely shattered when the babe sleepily opened his eyes, and Ned saw his own Stark gray eyes stare back at him confusedly but without any fear.

_He had a son._

“Stark!” called out a haggard voice at that moment from the nursery door. Ned looked and saw Ser Arthur Dayne, still dressed up in a loose shirt and breeches, the bandage of his wounded chest obvious through his open shirt. He looked somewhat drowsy still, placing both his hands on either side of the doorway as if doing so would help him stay standing.

“Ser Arthur,” greeted Ned, not knowing what else to say in this situation.

“I challenge you, Lord Stark… I challenge you—” began Ser Arthur

“You will do no such thing, Arthur!” interrupted another voice, and in the next moment a man who was quite obviously Ser Arthur’s eldest brother, Lord Aster—if Ned recalled Ashara’s description of her family well—appeared with a woman, Ned could only guess to be his lady-wife, Amyrilla. Lord Aster Dayne, like Ser Arthur had silvery blonde hair, with pale blue eyes. Looking between the young knight and the lord, Ned thought that he might have mistaken the two might have been twins instead of brothers separated by a few years. Lady Amyrilla was obviously of stony Dornish descent, looking not like any of the children of Nymeria, and thus likely from one of the Dornish houses from the Red Mountains. For some reason, the name Blackmont stuck out in Ned’s mind.

“Lord Stark, forgive my blockhead of a brother—he has not been well for some time and he knows not what he says,” said Lord Aster

“My apologies, Lord and Lady Dayne. And forgive my forwardness in entering your castle unannounced—I had come to speak with your sister before leaving to find mine, but I came to your castle to find it drugged into a deep sleep, open, and vulnerable to attack. I felt it my duty to see that no harm would come from whomever had left you as such.”

“You have my gratitude and hospitality, Lord Stark,” acknowledged Lord Aster.

“I trust you’ve already found you sister,” began Lady Amyrilla.

“Indeed… which child is hers?” asked Ned indicating the two babes in the cribs.

“She’s given birth?!” exclaimed Ser Arthur.

“Aye, and there are two boys and one girl in this room,” answered Ned.

A long moment of silence passed as Ned’s words sunk in to the brothers Dayne, and Lady Amyrilla. Ser Arthur looked absolutely crushed by this news, while Lord Aster shared a look between himself and his wife, who moved to see the third child better.

“You hold my sister’s son, Lord Stark,” said Lord Aster, his eyes narrowing as he looked between the babe and Ned, and Ned wondered if he only just now was realizing who the babe’s father truly was, and Ned felt deeply ashamed of himself. He should have had more restraint, but instead he’d soiled a lady’s honor and forced her to bear his child.

“The boy in the crib—” began Ned

“Is my son!” interrupted Ser Arthur.

Ned nearly dropped his son upon hearing this.

_A whitecloak… with a bastard child of his own?_

Lady Amyrilla gave Ser Arthur a look of confusion. Then Ned saw an odd look pass between Lord Dayne and his younger brother.

Ser Arthur explained, as though his brother and goodsister understood what he was speaking on, “His eyes are blue, not dark lilac, Aster.”

The Lady Amyrilla now moved to the crib where the larger boy had tuckered himself out into a fitful half-sleep.

“Eyes change color at that age,” stated Lord Aster.

Ser Arthur insisted, “The babe is not _him_!”

“He’s right Arthur… they’re dark blue. One might mistake them for violet in the wrong light, but there’s no mistaking it now,” confirmed Lord Aster’s lady-wife.

And Ned now wondered just exactly what the truth of the babe’s birth was, and what the Daynes had thought it had been. That must mean the girl was his… niece. Ned could not stand to think on what that meant.

“I found him and the girl with a woman upon the road,” interrupted Ned.

“A woman?” asked Lord Aster.

“Aye. She fainted it seemed and the babes were causing quite the racket—well he was. The girl, I don’t think she has the strength to do so. Ethan, could you perhaps take Lord and Lady Dayne to see the woman?” suggested Ned.

“Aye, my lord,” answered Ethan.

There was a moment’s hesitation from Lord Aster, who seemed to want to speak with Ned some more that was until his lady-wife crossed the room and placed her hand upon her husband’s arm and drew his attention to her.

“I’ll go, Aster, I think I know exactly who it is. Stay here, I am sure you have much to discuss with Lord Stark” said Amyrilla with a certain undertone to her.

There was a long silence that descended upon the room, Lord Aster and Ser Arthur seeming to recover more and more from the effects of the drug, their heads seeming to be clearer and themselves in more control of their bodies. It was at this point that the wetnurse began to stir, and Howland, for the sake of privacy escorted her out of the room. This left only the fussy, but tired babes with the three men.

“You wished to speak with me, Lord Aster?” asked Ned, suspecting exactly on what subject.

“As to my sister’s son—I believe I can see who the father is.”

“I will not deny that your sister and myself… know each other. But I will say that I knew not of this babe’s existence until this morning.”

Ser Arthur admitted, “He speaks the truth Aster… Ashara, told me just as much.”

“You two were always sharing secrets. What else did she tell you?” asked Lord Aster to his brother.

“That she did not wish for Lord Stark to know of his son’s existence,”

Ned felt a cold chill at Ser Arthur’s words, she ne’er intended to tell him? Why? He then added, “But now I do.”

Lord Aster’s look turned to him, “Aye, you do. And what, pray tell, do you propose to do with this knowledge? If the rumors I have heard are true, you already have a lady wife, who is expectant with another child of yours.”

“I would take him North with me. I’d tell no one but him—when the right day came—of his mother, so that Ashara might have the chance for a good marriage. I would take all the shame and all the responsibility for my son. No one need know for the sake of your sister’s honor.”

“Seven Hells… Ashara was right about you…” spoke Ser Arthur with an amused amazement.

“Are you so unfamiliar with Dornish custom, Lord Stark?” asked Lord Aster.

“Aye, but I thought since House Dayne is a stony Dornish house and proudly claims descent from the Age of Heroes, like the Starks that—well…” Ned began.

“Ned?” called out a voice from down the hall.

Though it was weak and obviously tired, though it had been nearly a year since he’d heard it, Ned still recognized her voice… Ashara’s voice. Ned, Lord Aster, and Ser Arthur immediately entered the wetnurses’ room. The maester, who was now awake and to his business, was tending to a still unconscious Lyanna. Ashara now sat up, as best she could, leaning far too forward and hunched over. Violet eyes met gray eyes, and then he saw them travel to the bundle he held in his arms.

“You know…” was the first words out of her mouth as she looked upon their son.

“Aye. What’s his name?” asked Ned.

“He hasn’t got one… I wanted to give him a good Northern name, but all I knew was Eddard, Rickard, and Brandon—and none of them truly fit him… you name him,” suggested Ashara, she then shifted her body so that she fell back onto the pile of pillows which helped support her so that she was half sitting up and half laying back.

Ned was silent for a moment as he thought through all the names of Starks gone by that he’d had to memorize… and suddenly one which could serve dual purpose in its choice came to him.

“Jon,” answered Ned as he looked at his son and smiled.

“My sister asked for a Northern name, and instead you name her son for a Valeman?” asked Ser Arthur incredulously.

Ned met Ser Arthur’s eyes with a glare for a moment before turning to explain to a clearly confused Ashara, and he told an abbreviated story from the one which he had heard from Old Nan as a child, “There was a Stark King of that name. He drove off pirates from our eastern coast. They had terrorized us for a few centuries from their base at the mouth of the White Knife. None were safe who lived along its shores in those days. But he gathered the strength of the southern houses, and pushed them back into the sea. He then built the Wolf’s Den so that all who lived upon the White Knife would be safe, and gave it to his second eldest son, Greymund, who later founded the Greystarks. The Wolf’s Den would go on to become the foundation of White Harbor, the greatest city in the North.”

“A fine name for my nephew,” admitted Lord Aster.

“Jon… yes… yes that’s his name,” agreed Ashara, as a smile flitted across her face.

“Ashara…” started Ned, but the rest of what he wished to say seemed stuck in his throat.

“Let me hold him,” insisted Ashara, holding her arms out to receive their son. Ned obliged her, and Ashara looked at their son lovingly as she held him close in her arms.

“Jon… my son Jon…” she said proudly though with much exhaustion. Then her arms fell to her lap, their son still clutched with them. To Ned’s great shock her body became slack, as though releasing a great burden.

“Ashara?” asked Lord Aster.

“Maester!” called out Ser Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mea coupula, but I looked over Edric Dayne's wiki page again for a refresher while writing this chapter and discovered that it was an older brother, not an older sister, who held the seat of House Dayne during this time. My bad. So Amyrilla has become the goodsister of Ashara and Arthur--for those who might be confused.


	33. Arthur III

**ARTHUR**  
  
Ashara was dead… Rhaegar’s last child was a bastard girl who had come too early, was weak, slightly deformed, and thus did not live to see the moon rise that night, meaning all this waiting for the she-wolf’s pup had been for naught. The bloody stag sat upon the Iron Throne of Westeros, with not a soul to challenge him. Arthur wondered what was left to him? Aster, after not coming to see him while he was sick, returned to ignoring him, as did his goodsister, Amyrilla. Arthur now realized that there had been a reason why only Ashara and her son had come to see him… only she had not given him up. And that was why she had pushed herself so hard to see that he healed; weakening her until at long last the infection the maester said she had been sick with, took her to the Stranger.  
  
It was a few days until Ashara’s death and burial—during which time the other Kingsguard and Northerners, staying for the event, questioned the Crownlands spy that had slipped into Starfall under the guise as Ashara’s handmaid, Minara. She said nothing. And was silent as one of the Silent Sisters. It was only when Ser Barristan mentioned Lord Varys’ name, that any kind of reaction was garnered from her, with her eyes bulging ever so slightly. But beyond that no further information was garnered from her. She continued to say nothing, preferring instead to savagely bite off her own tongue—leaving a mess of blood filling and pouring from her mouth instead of spilling her secrets. She died not long after choking on her own blood. But it mattered not, from what they could tell. They seemed to piece the most likely story together.  
  
Amyrilla told the Kingsguard that she had taken pity on the young Minara, thinking her so frightened at the prospects of what could be happening to her family left in the Crownlands that she had been teaching her about herbs and incense to take her mind off of such things. Apparently Minara took it upon herself to prepare the prescribed batch of sleeping herbs and load them into nearly every incense burner in the house during that day. She’d likely mixed some herbs to the she-wolf’s drink  & food to cause her to go into labor a few months early, and the guards’ food and drink in order to knock them out. But beyond that they had apparently drugged themselves it seemed when they or the servants had lit the incense that evening. It was during this interrogation that they came to understand that Ser Barristan and Ser Darry had come from Princess Elia with full knowledge that the babe Varys had said was Aegon—was in fact not Aegon, but a fake. It seemed likely that Minara had been Varys’ spy, and upon realizing that the truth was soon to be discovered had tried to take the babe and flee to Dragonstone—likely stowing away on Ser Barristan’s own ship. It seemed the simplest and most likely answer.  
  
It also meant that sending the fake Aegon back to Dragonstone was simply out of the question—as that is what Lord Varys wanted. There was a question of what to do with the child. Learning the babe was a fake, Aster and Amyrilla wanted nothing to do with the babe, wishing it gone from Starfall—lest it attract unwanted attention from more spies willing to sneak into their castle and drug them. That would be unsafe for their children—whenever they got around to having them—not to mention their little sister Allyria. Lord Stark offered to take the boy, as he was offering to take Ashara’s son, saying he could claim that Ashara had had twins, but considering how unalike and the obvious difference in size and ages the babes were, this was thought unwise by Ser Barristan, but no other option was open. And so the matter was left unsettled until after the funeral.  
  
Ashara was laid to rest as every stony Dornishman of the Red Mountains was—in a cave high up the side of the cliffs between which their river valley dwelt. The Daynes specifically held a cavern which had served as a catacomb for the family ever since its earliest days, thousands of years earlier. One could wander through the tunnels of the caverns and see the history of House Dayne laid out upon slabs of stone, covered with a silky shroud of death. The earliest lords had long since turned to dust and their names barely legible with the erosion of time.  
  
  
After Ashara had been laid out, candles lit by her, and flowers adorned her body, Aster finally spoke to him as they exited the cavern, servants replacing the stone which was rolled in front to keep the dead asleep. Since Ashara died he had maintained a silence between them, which now ended.   
  
He spoke sternly and with an understated fury that Arthur could just make out in his voice as he said, “I held my tongue for Ashara’s sake, but now that she’s gone… you will heal here, as I agreed with Ashara, and because you are my blood and I owe you that much, but after you have healed I want you to leave, and _never_ return.”  
  
That Aster was angry, especially with Ashara’s death, was understandable. But banishing him from Starfall? That was a shock.  
  
Arthur began, “Aster, the prince commanded me—”  
  
Aster did not give him the opportunity to speak, seemingly shaking with fury, “The rest of the neighboring houses and myself came to an agreement when we heard you had… assisted the Prince in setting aside Elia. You could have convinced him to stop what he was doing. But you didn’t. I myself didn’t want to believe that you could just turn your back on Dorne like that, leaving the Princess to the King’s mercy. But then you came out of the mountains with the she-wolf. If you had had any sense you would have died at that Tower! You should be in there! Then at least we could honor your memory with some amount of dignity. But now? You bring nothing but shame! You sat by and did nothing while the realm bled, while good Dornishmen died.”   
  
“Don’t lay their deaths at my feet! Lay anything else you desire there, but there’s only one man responsible for the death of so many Dornishmen, and he’s your guest!” spat Arthur.  
  
“No, you assisted him in starting this whole mess,” countered Aster.  
  
“I swore an oath to my King that—!”  
  
Aster would not let him speak, nearly shouting, “An oath to whom? A mad king and selfish prince! What about Dorne? What about our house? What of the Princess? You could have kept your _royal_ oath guarding the Princess, her children, and our Dornishmen in the Red Keep just as well as in assisting Rhaegar abduct the Stark girl. Where was the _honor_ in that? Instead of challenging him or doing your true duty, you assisted the Prince in putting aside Elia! You allowed the Princess, her children, and the entire Dornish retinue of the Princess to become hostages to Aerys’ damned will!”  
  
 _Too many oaths… far too many oaths…_  
  
“I did challenge him, Aster! I challenged him the entire way. He would not listen. Do you think I actually liked guarding that damn she-wolf? And he did no abducting! The wolf ran off on her own accord. He only had to whistle, and like a loyal bitch she came running. You know that’s what we all were… his loyal bitches. He had us wrapped around his finger, hanging on every word and for what? Nothing but a bunch of wind. Every time I told him he should not be doing this, all he would say is that the dragon must have three heads. He was truly mad…” realized Arthur.  
  
 _We all were._  
  
Aster spoke with that calm anger he had perfected so well, “And yet you still served his will.”  
  
Arthur replied in almost a whisper, “He was my friend, and I blinded myself to the truth for far too long because of it.” Arthur sighed and then said, “It seems that no matter what I would have done the name of oathbreaker I would have earned from _you_.”  
  
Aster stared at him, brow furrowed, and lips pursed tight before speaking. “You are not fit to call yourself the Sword in the Morning! As head of our house, I hereby strip you of Dawn. It shall remain at Starfall until the next member of our house proves his worth to wield it. By agreement with the Blackmonts, Manwoodys, Yronwoods, and Fowlers, you’re not welcome anywhere in the Red Mountains anymore. And I doubt the Martells and the rest of the salty Dornish would suffer you by the sea or along the Greenblood. So go serve your new king, like the loyal bitch you are!” spat Aster.  
  
And what was worse, Arthur knew Aster was right. He could have stopped the war, right? Had he been more insistent, like a true friend would have. Had he knocked Rhaegar down or told someone, the war would not have come. He had sworn to protect the royal family—not help him abduct highborn women on the whim of a Prince. He should have been in King’s Landing to have defended the young prince, Aegon, from his own grandfather. He should have defended Elia, Rhaella, and Rhaenys as they fled to Dragonstone… but with the choices he had made _mayhaps he is right… death would have been the honorable option._  
  
After the funeral, besides the recovered she-wolf—that no one wanted to keep—Lord Stark still insisted on taking Ashara’s son with him—and Aster was too upset over Ashara’s death to argue with him. The same decision was made for the second babe, since no one else knew what to do with him, much to Ser Barristan’s displeasure. Sending the second babe North with Lord Stark seemed a reasonable solution, from Aster to Ser Oswell. Everyone wanted their hands clean of him. Let the wolf take him, fend off the spies, and plague his marriage bed with him, was what the rest all thought.   
  
Arthur was enraged about Lord Stark’s decision for Jon—Ashara hadn’t wanted that for her son. And yet here it was, happening anyway, because Aster was too filled with grief and rage to think clearly. After Lord Stark and his men had left the threshold of Starfall’s gate, Arthur, without his armor called after Lord Stark. He would duel him… yes… and whoever won would get Jon. He may not have Dawn any longer, but he was still the best swordsman there was.  
  
He declared, “Now that you’re no longer my brother’s guest, Lord Stark, I challenge you to a duel.”  
  
There was general cry of foul amongst, and a general drawing of swords from the other Northern lords, but Lord Stark waved them aside.  
  
“Ned, don’t!” urged the she-wolf from the horse she rode—carrying his nephew and the imposter prince—but Stark met his sister’s eyes and something unsaid passed between them, which quieted the bark of the she-wolf. He then turned to Arthur, drawing his own sword.  
  
“And why would you wish to duel me, Ser? Should not you return to King’s Landing?” asked Stark.  
  
In truth he had not even given a thought to returning to the capital, but now he knew the answer to such a challenge.  
  
“There’s nothing for me in King’s Landing—a pox upon the bloody Stag! No, I fight for my nephew. If I win, I’ll take him with me to Essos—and raise him as Ashara said she wanted!” announced Arthur as their swords met, Stark managing to bring his own up at the last moment to block what would have otherwise been a deadly blow. The tension of the group intensified, the she-wolf glaring at him along with the other Northern lords.  
  
“Though he may not have my name, he is as much a Stark as any of my other children will be, and he belongs at Winterfell with the rest of his family,” countered Stark, steel meeting once again.  
  
Their blades met, going back and forth, they drew away from the she-wolf, her horse, and his nephew, battling in a ring the Northern lords formed. The battle was intense, with Arthur putting his all—his grief, his frustration, his anger—everything in the battle. As such, Stark was only just able to keep himself from being killed. When they got especially close, he taunted Stark, attempting to see some sort of emotion rise from the glacier mask he wore.  
  
“And what kind of life will Jon have there, as his father’s eldest, but bastard son? I know how you Northerners treat their bastards!”  
  
“And what kind of home can you provide for him, going from city to city? How is that any way to raise a child?”  
  
“You speak as though you know something about it—are there any other bastard siblings that your pretty wife should be worried about?” taunted Arthur  
  
That got a rise out Stark, and Arthur knew he’d found the right line of taunt. Stark’s swings became a bit less precise, his movements slightly sloppy, and Arthur got him in a position, where he only just blocked his move. The position, had Stark with an awkward footing, allowing Arthur to slowly push Stark’s blocking sword back towards his own flesh, and threaten to topple him over with his slipping feet.  
  
“That’s right, your Tully wife and trueborn child to come—you’ll be lucky if it’s a boy, then your trout wife can sleep a little easier, not much, but a little. But if it’s a girl? Oh… she’ll complain to the Seven gods, and pray for his death daily. Is that the life Jon deserves?”  
  
As chance would have it, Stark’s sliding back foot caught on a rock and he managed to regain his footing and his nerve, overthrowing Arthur’s position and with a few strokes of his own sword, managed to put Arthur in the position Stark himself had been in.  
  
Stark bore into him himself, challenging, “And what of endless days and nights of traveling from place to place and inn to inn? It’s a life fit for a song, but not to live! What can you do to provide for him? What trade would you know that would be of any use to an Essosi? Your best skill is your sword. Say you join a sellsword company. How will you raise a babe while fighting for whatever merchant prince pays you the most? There are no wetnurses on the road, and if you hire one it would cost you more money and food. How would Jon eat for the first years of his life if you can’t afford a wetnurse? And say you manage to keep him alive until he can eat more than milk, where would he call home? Who would look after him while you fight in one war or another? Where shall you keep him safe from the slavers who would snatch him during one of your battles and sell him to some master from Slaver’s Bay? Everyone knows they abduct children who aren’t attended to over there. Winterfell may not be the perfect place for my son, but it is far better than what you have to offer!”  
  
Stark’s sword finally pushed his aside, and Arthur felt the cool blade of Stark’s steel at his neck—holding there, but pausing. Everything seemed silent for an instant, and in that moment, with Stark’s sword against his neck, Arthur knew what he wanted, more than anything since Ashara had died… it was all the only way this could end, and so he said it.  
  
“Kill me… please,” Arthur whispered, grabbing Stark’s sword arm’s wrist, to keep the sword at his throat. He felt a little trickle of blood form from a small cut that had already formed. Stark stared at him in shock at this action.   
  
And Arthur knew he would not satisfy him, before Stark replied, “No. Ashara would not have wanted it this way.”  
  
And with that he withdrew his sword and backed away, allowing Arthur to crumple to the ground. Stark took his sword, handing it to the little crannogman.  
  
“Why?” asked Arthur, staring up at him.  
  
“One day, I would have Jon know his mother’s family. Mayhaps by then you’ll have found yourself worthy of being known again,” and with that Stark, she-wolf, and his sworn lords left Arthur to his grief.


	34. Dunsten

**DUNSTEN**  
  
It was awful hot for a spring night—at least as far as Dunsten could remember in his six and twenty years of living. But he would do his paid duty and keep a lookout, though he sweated like a stuck boar from the Reach on a spinroaster. All he needed was a few hundred extra pounds on his skinny bones and a blood orange in his mouth. It had been several hours since he removed his shirt, and now he took the kerchief he usually wore to keep his longish dirty gold hair out of his eyes and the sun from the top of his head and blotted it, removing all the extra sweat from his face and neck—where he liked it the least. What was the worst was when sweat got in your eyes. It caused them to tear up and feel itchy—and there weren’t nothing to do about it.   
  
After Dunsten had soaked up as much of his own sweat as he could, he grabbed either end of his kerchief, twisted it up, and wrung it out, with only a measly few small drops escaping the damp cloth and dripping onto the floor of the lookout’s nest he lazily stood in, leaning his back against the mast the nest was built around. He thought about his trip to get here as he did, comparing the heat all along the way.  
  
Besides, when captain’s orders to sail out of Lannisport came, Dunsten had been confused. News from the Crownlands had said that most of the fighting was over with. Besides which, what could Lord Tywin want with his fleet there, less he became Master of Ships. But then Dunsten had heard Lord Tywin was Master of Coin… mayhaps though he was trying to get one of his brothers as Master of Ships. Other than that, Dunsten couldn’t see a reason why to sail all the way around Dorne. At least that’s what Dunsten figured, but besides what did he know, he just took his orders and coin, same as everybody. The voyage South had been warmer than the brisk air of Lannisport, but only just noticeable. After passing through the Redwyne Straits, they’d entered the Summer Sea, and seven hells, he’d thought that had been bad at first—but now that he thought on it, there’d been cool breezes blowing from the south that nearly threatened to beach them somewhere along the southern coast of Westeros. No wonder most of the Dornish lived by the sea, though… with cool breezes like that—he would’ve settled there as well, when given the chance between that and endless desert.  
  
The trip besides that had been smooth sailing, the winds at their backs. The only bit of trouble that came had been when they’d passed through the straits of Tarth. There’d been a threat of a tiny summer tempest—but nothing too terrible besides.  
  
Looking out over the waters, Dunsten reflected on how boring a ob the night’s lookout was—besides nothing ever exciting happens at night because most sailors have moved to port or anchored where they could for the night. Very few sailed through the night—and those that did, usually didn’t want to be found.  
  
A cloud moved in front of the moon, blinding Dunsten for a few moments from his only source of light. His eyes would either adjust, or he’d just have to wait for the cloud to move. So he waited, seven hells he was sick of waiting. It’s all he did anymore. He waited for his gold, he waited for his drink, he waited to confess to the Septon; he waited for Tyene to make up her mind about whether she liked lookouts or deckhands more. Needless to say, he was sick of waiting, and yet that’s all he could do. Just as Dunsten was about to give up on the damned cloud from moving, the cloud seemed to vanish as quick as it had appeared—as though some sorcerer had waved his hands and caused the clouds to pop out of the sky.  
  
And there, plain as day in the full moon’s light, Dunsten saw, right in their path, a small boat, seeming to drift helplessly along the waves. Pulling out the Myrish spyglass that Lord Tywin outfitted all his ships with, Dunsten focused his sight upon the boat and saw that it indeed was at the mercy of the currents, and that a small girl and fat man sat within it. He had to tell the captain.


	35. Lyanna III

**LYANNA**  
  
The gods had mocked her prayers for a son, and instead had given her exactly what Rhaegar had wanted, a girl… who thanks to some spy had been dead before she’d had a chance to hold her daughter in her arms. Her baby… dead… but yet the son promised to her lived. He was Ned’s son, Jon. Ned’s beautiful little boy with hair of a shade of brown that was not exactly Stark in color as in certain light it seemed to shimmer slightly, like his mother’s had from what little Lyanna had seen of her. Everything else about Jon seemed Stark enough, the grey eyes—well they were slightly darker than Ned’s, but nothing completely out of the range of grey—the long face, even his dower little expressions—Ned’s obvious gifts to the boy—were signs of his Stark heritage. Would her nephew avenge her? As she thought this, her grandmother Marna’s words echoed in her ears:  
  
 _You should right your own wrongs, child._  
  
“Lyanna” said a voice, and Lyanna looked up from her tiny nephew to see Brandon standing before her, reaching out to touch her and Jon, but held back by a chain around his neck, with blood pouring down from his throat.  
  
She nearly dropped Jon at the sight of Brandon—who vanished as quickly as he had appeared from her tiny cabin. Despite seeing it several times each day, she felt she would never get used to seeing Brandon or her Father like she saw them in visions. Each time would be a new bread of shock.  
  
Day and night she was haunted by visions of Brandon and her father. Sometimes she would see her dead daughter in one of their arms, and Lyanna would break down and cry in those moments. These visions plagued her to no end, and the only comfort she could find was in taking care of her nephew Jon, and the unwanted babe that looked like he might’ve been Ser Arthur’s son. Lyanna simply thanked Ned for not naming him Rickard or Brandon.  
  
It was then she heard a knock from her door, and Lyanna bid them come in. To her great surprise in came little Howland Reed. Gods he looked changed from Harrenhal. Had it truly been a year since then?  
  
“Are you all right, Lady Lyanna?” asked Howland.  
  
She caught her breath and swallowed before responding, “Aye…”  
  
“You don’t seem it,” answered Howland plainly.  
  
Ned. She had to see Ned. He’d refused to speak with her alone, but she needed to talk with him. She needed to hear him call her “little Lya” and joke with her and tell her things would be fine. But he would not come for her alone, and so she said, “Howland, could you ask Ned to come here… tell him it’s about the babes.”  
  
“Are they well?” asked Howland  
  
“Please, Howland, bring him here,” she begged, and silently Howland nodded his head and closed the door. Ever since she’d been brought to this tiny cabin she’d either been in   
  
“What is wrong with the babes?” asked Ned, when he finally entered the room, walking to the crib without any pause in his stride. Lyanna moved to the door immediately and leaned herself against it, blocking any exit from the cabin.   
  
It was in this moment that Ned looked up from the crib where the two babes lay peacefully to where she stood, and seemed to comprehend in an instant the true reason he had been brought to the cabin. But after this realization, a stoic look appeared on his face and he looked to the crib. A long silence descended upon the cabin.  
  
“You’ve been awfully quiet, Ned,” said Lyanna after the silence had become utterly unbearable.  
  
He was silent for a long time, and then he spoke, looking at his son, and refusing to meet her eyes, “Considering everything you’ve been through, I did not think it best to hassle you with anything unpleasant, Lyanna”  
  
 _Not Lya?_ There was something rather cold about her full name, as Ned said it.  
  
“I’m not a child, so don’t start—” began Lyanna  
  
“Are you quite sure about that?” interrupted Ned, suddenly turning to meet her—his face a frozen mask.  
  
She nearly laughed with a touch of disbelief, “I’ve conceived, carried, given birth, and buried a babe of my own body. To not say I’m a woman grown would be absurd.”  
  
He was measured in his words, “In body, it is undeniable.”  
  
 _But not in mind, is that what you mean, Ned?_  
  
“I hate this. You know I do.”  
  
“Hate what?” he asked plainly.  
  
“I hate the way you’re tiptoeing around everything. Saying things without saying what you mean. You know how much I hate that! Father did it all the time, and now you’re just doing it to get me angry. Speak plainly!”  
  
He began, “You don’t want—”  
  
“Say it, and be done with it!” she insisted.  
  
He warned, “Lyanna, don’t tempt—”  
  
“Shout it, if you have to!”  
  
He spoke calmly but with conviction, “No. You’re not going to turn me into a villain so you can feel better about yourself!”  
  
She began, “What do you—”  
  
Ned interrupted, saying, “As much as you want to put me in Father’s role, I am not him. He is _gone_ , and so are his tricks.”  
  
“I’m not as positive about that as you seem to be,” admitted Lyanna with a bit of a scoff.  
  
“You’re not going to goad me into yelling at you. You’ve had to bear a child, and you lost her, it would be… unfeeling of your situation to say much more, Lyanna.”  
  
“You won’t call me Lya,” she observed.  
  
“You want me to admit that I’m angry with you outside of that? Well, I am. You want me to shout, scream, and rave like the king we just deposed—I won’t, because I know you too well. Despite using those tactics yourself, the minute anybody else does so, you dismiss them and their opinions.”  
  
Lyanna could not hold back her protest, “I do not!”  
  
“Oh yes you do. I’ve listened to you complain enough when you think someone is being unreasonable, and any conversation that descends into shouting immediately is brought up as a reason to mock and belittle the other person’s point of view when you’re with someone else.”  
  
 _Do I do that?_  
  
“I would never mock you.”  
  
 _Not you, Ned…_  
  
He spoke plainly, for once, saying, “I used to think you’d never bring any harm to the pack.”  
  
 _Father… Brandon…_  
  
“You don’t think I know that? I’ve had to live with that knowledge ever since Ser Gerold came into Dorne to find the Prince. In the beginning he relished telling me every detail of how father and Brandon died. He seemed to take a perverse pleasure in seeing me tremble as he spoke of how the wildfire seemed to eat our father alive, and of how Brandon choked himself to a bloody death, slitting his own throat with that chain. He later took pity on me, but by then he had told the story so often that would I see them standing before me in their final moments. At first I thought it was only delusions brought about by the pregnancy—feverish imaginations… but I am not pregnant anymore and yet they still come…”  
  
She could not hold back her treacherous tears any longer. She wasn’t doing it for any sign of sympathy, they just came. Ashamed of them, she turned away to wipe them away, but they just kept coming. Before she knew it, Ned took her in his arms and comforted her like he always had—silently, but presently. His touch spoke louder than any words could have said, and Lyanna felt once again as though she were four again, crying because he was about to leave Winterfell to be fostered, and nuzzled in his hug.  
  
“The pack is not just father or Brandon—you’ve got Benjen beating himself up over what he’s done.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“He blames himself for their deaths for helping you to leave. He told me all about it after I got back to Winterfell. He wants to go to the Wall for it.”  
  
Ben had never held any interest in going to the Wall before…  
  
“I didn’t want to believe it when he told me. I wanted to believe you had to tell him those things so that he, Father, or Brandon wouldn’t die having to fight the Kingsguard…”  
  
She thought to push away from him, but this was the first time in a long time he had had any contact with her, so for the sake of keeping that for just a little longer she endured his words, only begging “Ned, I understand—”  
  
He did not let her continue, saying, “Then there’s all the men who will never return to their homes… half of Westeros lays dead.”  
  
Lyanna smirked and nuzzled against him, “You’re over exaggerating.”  
  
“With the battles I’ve had to fight… I think I’m underestimating… you say you see father and Brandon from just the report of Ser Gerold… I see what I’ve done with my own hands… and it is monstrous.”  
  
That stopped her. What had Ned seen to provoke this in him? What had sweet Ned, kind Ned, lovable Ned done in the last year?  
  
Trying to hold back the horrific thoughts which popped into her head—she could hardly imagine Ned swinging Ice with impunity, reveling in the blood splatter, but the image haunted her nonetheless as a distinct possibility. Hesitantly she asked, “Ned… what did you do?”  
  
His answer was spare, but determined, “What I had to… to get you back…”  
  
Lyanna stared at Ned, who seemed frozen to the spot—staring off into space. What had Ned done? No one had told her any news of the battles through the war, and no one seemed to want to talk about them around her. Howland would tell her. She would have to ask him. And that was what truly killed Lyanna—all through his fostering, Ned had kept in close contact, writing letters, and each visit over the years had proven him to be the same lovable Ned who’d gone to the Eyrie in the first place. This Ned that vaguely spoke of battles, was deathly silent, and as frozen as the Wall wasn’t the Ned she had known—the irritatingly honorable, sweet-minded older brother who’d let her get away with much. This wasn’t the Ned she knew… and to think he might never be that Ned again… was almost as horrible a loss as having lost her daughter, not quite the same, but nearly just as horrible to comprehend.  
  
“The pack will recover, it must,” she urged trying to change the subject, to see if now that he had said his part, he might speak with her as they used to.  
  
“Aye… it must,” admitted Ned, as he broke their hug and returned to standing over the crib, looking at the babes, a slight smile appearing on his face as he did so.  
  
“We have two new members here, and if Howland speaks truly, a third on the way?” asked Lyanna, as she joined Ned by his side looking at the babes.  
  
Ned spoke cautiously, as though afraid to become too involved in any further conversation, “Aye, my wife is with child.”  
  
“Where do you plan to foster them?” she asked quite casually.  
  
He shook his head and kept his eye upon the babes, saying, “They’ll be raised at Winterfell, as brothers.”  
  
And Lyanna at that moment could praise the gods for relief. He was still there, underneath it all—sweet Ned was still in there, just buried deep.  
  
“Do you think that’s wise?” asked Lyanna  
  
He reminded her, “Generations of Stark bastards have been raised at Winterfell, and we’ve never had a problem with them. It’s always been the cadet branches goaded on by the Boltons…”  
  
He had a point there.  
  
She reminded him though, “But you have not taken a Northern wife, Ned. You have married a Southron fish, and you’ll offend her sense of family, duty, and honor by taking the babes as your bastards.”  
  
“She’s a Stark now, and—” he began.  
  
Lyanna would not let him finish that sentence. _He must understand_. “Ned, even Stark women have trouble accepting bastards.”  
  
He looked at her with a curious expression.  
  
She was silent for a moment before elaborating, “It was one of the reasons I did not wish to marry Robert.”  
  
“Because he has a bastard daughter?” asked Ned, the look of perplexity still glued to his face.  
  
“No because he’s likely to continue having bastard children. A woman can tolerate one transgression—most especially if it is from before the marriage took place, but after? No, it is a thing intolerable!” her voice rose with the many eons of anger of betrayed wives.  
  
“Jon is the only bastard I mean to sire,” answered Ned with great determination, though again he did not look at her.  
  
“I know, you would not be my dear brother if that weren’t the truth. And if you’re honest about his origins with your wife, Ned, your wife might not resent his existence half as much as if you refuse to speak about them with her,” added Lyanna, softening slightly as she spoke.  
  
Ned seemingly sagely said, “Not all women truly wish to hear the truth—that is something I have learned through the years.”  
  
“Not all women are your wife. A wife deserves more than other women—even your sister,” she countered.  
  
“I will have Jon and Den raised at Winterfell,” declared Ned, as though saying so would make it so.  
  
So he’d named the other babe Den? Must be after that Vale friend of his… Denys? Yes, Denys.  
  
For Ned’s sake as her brother, she continued, saying, “Then at least claim Den to not be your bastard son. Jon will be hard enough for your Tully wife to accept, twins would be intolerable—believe that from me, if you can believe nothing else—besides you could not claim them as twins with their obvious difference in ages anyway, and he has none of your features for you to claim him so. Take Den in as a ward, if you feel you must raise the child, but claim him as a war orphan—that’s truth enough. You will be thought well of for taking in an orphan of the war, and your Tully wife deserves as much of the truth as you can give her.”  
  
Ned retreated back into silence then, leaving Lyanna to have to break it once again with, “See, it was about the babes after all,” she said with a feeble attempt to goad him into a better mood—mayhaps then they could continue to talk. But instead Ned had withdrawn into his silent shell once more.  
  
Soon, when it became apparent that she had to, she begged, “Just speak to me the way you used to… please, Ned.”  
  
“There are some things, which will never be as they were before,” was his response, and he left her cabin at this.


	36. Elia II

**ELIA**  
  
What time she did not spend in the solar planning her daughter’s rescue—with ravens being sent to Driftmark and Claw Isle to ensure Varys found no nearby friendly port—even taking her meals in that dower room, she spent in the sept, praying to Mother Rhoyne to watch over her daughter in this hour of her need. She also prayed to the Warrior, Father, and Crone—that her mission this day might be blessed. She prayed until her knees did ache from having done so for far too long. At which point, Elia rose—having filled the small candle rack before the mother with candles a flame with the prayers of her only child’s safe return.  
  
 _Rhaenys, where are you, my sweet little dragon? Seven protect you and watch over you._  
  
As Elia left Dragonstone’s sept, she traversed the gardens for the stables.   
  
Rhaenys had hardly been missing for two days when news arrived from southernmost of the four ships they’d sent in the cardinal directions to locate her daughter, that they had spotted the approaching Westerlands Fleet. Elia had recalled what she could of the Westerlands Fleet—the smallest of all the fleets in Westeros, as she seemed to recall, being far outstripped by the Redwyne Fleet and Iron Fleet. However what worried Elia was that the Royal Fleet was hardly much larger than the Westerlands Fleet—after all there hardly seemed a reason to maintain a fleet of such a large size when the Redwynes were thoroughly loyal. So this impending naval battle—likely the last battle of this bloody war—would be a far more even-handed match than any of the previous battles had been since Ashford.  
  
One raven had been sent to Hoster Tully upon Lord Mallister’s urging. Lord Mallister had already proven his trust and honor by searching over the island with Ser Jaime when news of Rhaenys’ disappearance had been fresh. Since there was tell of the approaching ships only being the Westerlands Fleet—with the Westerlands having stayed neutral until this moment, if she knew rightly—it would seem that Ser Jaime’s assessment of his father were spot on. Even now she recalled hearing his argument:  
  
 _Ser Jaime had said, “If my father sails his fleet after having sat the war out, he’s likely looking for an opportunity to win friends amongst the new guard in King’s Landing. He’ll mean to siege the island, and leave none alive.”_  
  
 _“And he would do so at our expense,” her goodmother had agreed._  
  
The very thought sent a chill down her spine. Lord Mallister insisted on writing the letter himself, though agreed completely to allowing the Queen and herself the sight of it. She read it thoroughly and found that Lord Mallister had written the entire thing as though he had returned to Seaguard. When she asked him about this, Lord Mallister replied that it had been agreed by Lord Hoster and himself to write in such a coded manner until the tentative alliance between King’s Landing and Dragonstone could be more publicly proclaimed.  
  
 _“I’ve informed him of the impending Westerlands Fleet and your suspicions that Lord Lannister is up to no good. We Riverlanders have a colloquial name we use for Lannisters that naught but a Riverlander ought to recognize. I have not yet written to him of your daughter’s disappearance,” mentioned Ser Mallister_  
  
 _Elia had urged, “If you could hold off on that I would much appreciate it. Mayhaps one of our ships has even now found her and is sailing swiftly to bring her to me.”_  
  
 _Lord Jason then said, “I hope not, my Princess, if for no other reason than that your daughter might not get caught in the midst of a naval battle, for they’re a senseless mess.”_  
  
 _Seven preserve my little dragon…_  
  
Elia needed little help to mount her saddled white mare. She would proudly ride down to the docks atop her, with Elia dressed in one of her silken gowns of orange, yellow, red, and black colors. Elia disliked the dress because it made her look like a setting sun—and a setting sun was not fortuitous to the prospects of their coming battle. But it was the best gown available, and so it would have to do.  
  
After nudging her mare along, she was joined by Ser Jaime, who was to ride with her to the docks for her protection. She had balked at the idea of needing protection, when Ser Jaime had first approached her with caution:  
  
 _“Since the eunuch has left us, we cannot be sure of the island’s safety outside of the castle. Varys may have spies who yet remain.”_  
  
 _Elia had insisted, “If all goes well, this island, the traditional Targaryen stronghold, will be my daughter’s seat of her Paramountcy. If Targaryens cannot ride to the docks in safety here, Ser Jaime, then Targaryens are safe nowhere. Let Varys’ little birds do their worst! I know my duty, and shall do it in my daughter’s stead. I will go to the docks and see our fleet off, with or without you, Ser!”_  
  
That had goaded him into a right and proper state, if his moody silence were any indication of his thoughts. The ride to the docks from the castle was a short one, but made all the quicker with the lovely little trot down the hill that they took. For a moment, Elia imagined herself back in Dorne, upon the back of a sand steed, rushing over the sands to the West of Sunspear. But just as soon as she had imagined such she was reminded of her true placement in Westeros as they came to the docks. It was here she reigned back her mare in order to walk gently to the head of the dockyard, where she could look out over the sailors of her fleet gathered amongst the creaky wooden planks of the docks.   
  
Elia gave a look over the men, they seemed ready for a fight, having sat out the war this long… she wished that they would not see too much of a fight in the days to come, but knew her wish was as likely to come true as to sprout legs and be a horse. And so she began her speech, preferring to ride down from overtop so that she could be amongst the sailors and they might hear her words. Behind her she heard Ser Jaime swear, but Elia paid him little heed.   
  
“To our sailing warriors most worthy, this day you venture forth to not only protect this island and its inhabitants, but to take the battle to meet a coward’s force. Having waited so long to join the war, the Late Lord Lannister does himself little credit in choosing to sail to Dragonstone.”  
  
She heard more than a few laughs at her improvised name for Lord Tywin, and after waiting for a few moments for the laughter to die down, she then continued, “He means to take the island so as to curry favor with our cousin in King’s Landing. To turn us into a mere footnote in the history he seeks to write. But we shall show such a man what becomes of dishonorable cowards!”  
  
A general chorus of “Aye” rang out amongst the men. Hearing such spurred Elia to continue further.  
  
“We will not see the island taken by a single Westerlands alley cat, let alone a lion who thinks himself so mighty for his mane. It is time we trim it some, to remind the Late Lord Lannister that beneath that mane, he too is just any other cat! Now go on, and bring defeat to the lion!”  
  
A general roar rolled over the crowd, with arms rising up to receive her blessing and benediction, which she freely gave. As she did so, Elia, with some bemusement looked over to the young lion who was her guard and saw he looked at her with some amazement, as though he were but seeing her for the first time. It was then she felt a pain ripple through her back, the mare bucked, scaring off some of the sailors, and Elia felt herself lose her grasp of the reigns as she fell to the ground and in a haze she watched as Ser Jaime leaped from his mount, checked her, and when he felt sure she was fine, he charged after a man who held a bloody dagger in his hands. The man was being grabbed at by members of the crowd in an attempt to slow him down. Other sailors checked on herself, and as they called for a ship's maester, Elia felt the pain in her back increase and the edges of her sight grow dim and dark.


	37. Catelyn II

  
**CATELYN**

When her father had arrived late in the evening to her chambers, Catelyn had not known what to expect. Certainly the last thing she expected to hear from her Lord Father’s voice was that she was to put on an unmarked cloak and to go down to the docks with an escort in the guise of Lord Tytos Blackwood—also dressed with an unmarked cloak. Her cloak was quite large enough to hide her nearly seven month swell.

As Catelyn did as her father bid her, she asked, “Why such secrecy?”

“You’ll see, Cat… you’ll see…” said her father with an odd mixture between a smile and frown and an odd tone to his voice.

The trip from the Tower of the Hand to the docks proved to be far less troublesome when the streets were mostly abandoned at night, with only the goldcloak patrols for company. Lord Tytos walked with his arm linked with hers, going as fast as she felt she could waddle through the streets. Catelyn had now grown used to the smell of King’s Landing and the wafting scent of the nearly cleared battlefield beyond it. Such a thought made her stomach turn at its implications.

They arrived at the docks as the last bit of sunlight slid beneath the western horizon. Much to her surprise there were two men who met them at the entrance to the harbor. From the years of study she had devoted during her long betrothal to Brandon, she recognized the Northern sigils immediately. Two crossed battle axes on a yellow field: House Dustin. A silver gauntlet on a red field: House Glover. They made their introductions then: Lord Willam Dustin, and Ethan Glover. Both of whom had been with her husband. It seemed her husband had returned to her. Catelyn immediately rubbed the swell of her belly with pride, imagining how well favored she would be received for bringing her husband a son in but a few months’ time. She also feared this meeting—why would he return and send for her to come in secret? That gave her ill bodings.

Lord Tytos and herself were escorted to a ship and taken to a tiny cabin inside of which stood her Lord husband. It was here that Lord Tytos took off his cloak and Catelyn dropped her hood and greeted her husband. He seemed rather nervous, more like Petyr had when they and Lysa and begun kissing games at Riverrun. He greeted her by taking her hand and a kiss upon each cheek. Such a greeting while not uncommon was not what one would expect from a husband and wife—but then Eddard and she hardly knew one another, despite what the swell of her belly proved. She was brought a stool by her husband, and urged to sit, for which she was quite grateful for his attentiveness. Lord Tytos was asked to give them a moment alone, and with a nod he did so.

She began by saying, “Not that I am ungrateful to see you safe and sound, my lor—Eddard, but why the secrecy? Did you not find your sister?”

“Ned, please call me Ned,” encouraged her husband. Ned? The Bloody Wolf wanted her to call him Ned? Had she not seen the remains of the battlefield, she’d doubt the word of her husband’s deeds.

“Of course, but you did not answer my questions,” she reminded.

“Aye I did find my sister, and I would have you meet her before we part, but is it not enough that I wished to see you, Catelyn?” he asked her.

“If you are to be Ned, then you must call me Cat,” she added.

He smiled at this and then said, “Aye, so it shall.” He then paused for a moment, as if gathering his nerve. “I wished to see you, and our growing child. To speak with you and introduce you to some people before the King would have need of me… Cat.”

At mention of their future babe, Catelyn proudly felt her swelling body. She received a kick in response. The future heir to Winterfell grew within her—of that she was quite sure. And so she unhooked her cloak and let it fall where it may. She would happily show her future husband what she could of his son to be.

“Your son and heir grows strong within me, Ned, I feel quite confident in saying that it is a son.”

Ned stared in wonder at her, as though he had never seen a woman quick with child before—she doubted that very much.

“You look on with amazement,” she observed.

“Aye… to think that that is the result of one night amazes me… I do not say that to cause any offense, Cat, but it makes me wonder about our future propensity for children.”

She bristled slightly at the obviously unconscious suggestion that he might have doubted that one night was enough to get her with child, but then he had seen her maiden blood on the sheets. She knew that he knew that she had come to him a maiden, and she also knew that he had not, by his own admission. But she put aside these thoughts—it would do no good for her marriage if she imagined every word he spoke to be a slight to her. He obviously had not a way with words, and as such she would have to see to it that she did not imagine intentions behind his words that were not there.

So she made a peace offering to his apology for his unintended offense, “I would like to have a large family, my lord, to help amend for your loss.”

At this her husband looked at her with an obvious gratitude, gone was the icy exterior he’d had before now.

He was restrained in his response, but still obviously very grateful. “I would not ask that of you if you did not wish for it, Cat.”

She smiled as he gallantly kissed her hand. She could very easily grow to become fond of her new husband, the way he was treating her. He was being so attentive and considerate, that Cat nearly imagined herself her nickname’s namesake and having been given cream to lap up.

She should have savored that moment more.

He continued, “That makes what I have to say though that much harder.”

“Is it unpleasant news, Ned?” she asked, fearful of such a warning.

“I fear you might find it as much,” he replied bluntly. He then continued, “But after giving it some careful consideration, I think the best thing would be for the truth to be between us, do you not, Cat?”

Catelyn did not like where all this preamble was leading, it caused her son within her to move about uneasily.

“Aye, I would always wish to have the truth from you, Ned, even if it is… unpleasant,” she admitted.

_At least then I would know that I am worth the truth, if you do admit as much to me._

He began, “I found my sister in Dorne. While there I discovered an abandoned babe who has been orphaned by the war. Seeing as the child has no one else in the world, I have decided to take him in as my ward until he is a man-grown.”

Such news as this, while disconcerting, Catelyn could not understand why she would be expected to find it displeasing. That nobles took in wards was common enough practice, and that her husband was good enough to do so for a babe orphaned by the war, why that spoke of a kind and gentle heart that Catelyn could very well see herself falling in love with, were it to be expressed more openly to her. If anything such an act tempered any fears she had at her husband being a Bloody Wolf in marriage as much as in war, and it endeared him to her more.

“My lord, I would be happy to help you raise your ward. Mayhaps when he is of age to squire, I might write to my nuncle Brynden, the Blackfish, so that he may have a chance to earn his own way in this world,” she suggested.

At this a faint smile appeared on her husband’s lips, and Catelyn knew she had well-pleased him with such an offer.

“I cannot imagine why you thought that might displease me, Ned, it would be good for our son to have a boy like a brother close in his age to play with,” she admitted.

“Aye… but I have been holding back the part that I fear to tell you, Cat,” he admitted.

That had not been the news he wished to tell her? She the sighed and said, “Then say it, Ned, and be done with it.”

He then took a breath and said, “Cat, you’ll recall on our wedding night that I admitted to having only been with one other woman before we were to be married, do you not?”

That sinking feeling she had felt earlier suddenly began to claw and drag her spirits down. _He wasn’t about to… no…_

“Aye, but that was before any connection was made between the two of us” she admitted, half feeling the need to remind herself of how the situation had been at the time to quell the clawing feelings.

“Well, like our one night, it too resulted in—”

_No…_

“A bastard, my lord?” she interrupted.

“Aye. I have a bastard son,” he confessed.

The claws of her jealousy sunk in deep. Who was this woman who had seduced her husband and given him a son before she could? Did Ned seek to put his bastard son ahead of hers?

_By the Seven! It is bad enough that he had a bastard, but a bastard son?_

_But he is a babe, nothing more, and one who was conceived when I was to marry Brandon. To hold it against Ned would be ridiculous. He owed me nothing at that time, and he is trying to be honorable in at least telling me about his existence._

_But his bastard is older than my son… and could possibly be a threat one day._

_Only if I fail my duty to my son._

“I am sorry Cat,” he said

 

With some amount of restraint, Catelyn held back her jealousy as much as she could. Her husband had not broken his vows to her, and was being honest with her--that alone was worth holding back and quelling any amount of jealousy. Were he to have hidden the truth from her, then she might have cause to resent him more, but with it spoken in the open?

 

She forced herself to voice these thoughts, pushing back against jealousy's claws, “For what do you apologize? You have not broken our marriage vows. By his existence now, the babe was conceived before you were to marry me. Were you to have broken your vows to me, he’d not yet be born. Unless of course you are apologizing for not having told me before of his existence?”

“I knew not of Jon until a moon ago. I am sorry for causing you pain, Cat,” he admitted.

And in that moment, Catelyn felt the claws of jealousy lose their grip, if only for the moment. He was genuinely concerned for how she felt, and to have that in her husband, was worth enduring a bastard son's existence.

 

“Would you care to meet my sister?” he asked her.

“Aye, I would like to meet my goodsister,” she agreed, and her husband helped her too her feet and retrieved her cloak and put it about her shoulders once more.

She was thankful that Ned had told her of the boy’s existence, and she felt that as long as the boy stayed in the relative unknown with his mother, that she would be able to continue on without ever having to give the boy another thought.

Looking back, she should not have been so optimistic.

In the second cabin, she was introduced to her goodsister. And Catelyn was able to see for the first time the face which began this entire war. It was not a particularly beautiful face, at least not in the classic sense, but it was hardly plain or ugly either. Instead it was a face which held a beauty that was more than the sum of its parts. But how this could inspire the dragon prince to have abducted her, Catelyn knew not.

But these concerns became secondary when a gurgle caught the attention of her ears, and she turned to see a makeshift cradle tucked away in a tight corner of the cramped cabin. It was in that cradle she saw two babes, both wide awake. There were like night and day to one another—one could pass for a Targaryen princeling, were it not for his blue eyes who she took to be her husband’s ward. The other… was her husband in miniature form—like the son she wished to give him.

“You brought him with you?” asked Catelyn as she turned to her husband’s face. He nodded, admitting as such. She felt her hands unconsciously go to the swell of her belly at that moment.

_What if my son does not resemble his father as much?_

She was shocked at this news, “Why does he travel with you? Does he not have a mother?”

Her husband lowered his head and woefully said, “I take my son in because his mother is dead.”

Catelyn felt rather foolish and a bit guilty for a moment for having spoken in such a way about the woman. A woman, who she could obviously tell Eddard cared for to have taken in their son. But that only made the grip of jealousy’s claws sink in further.

“Who was she?” asked Catelyn, needing to know

Her husband was silent for a moment before speaking, looking towards his sister for a moment before answering, “Lady Ashara Dayne.”

_A highborn bastard on both sides… the most dangerous kind. And a Dornishman to boot… in thirteen years’ time there’ll be servant girls in Winterfell big with his bastards._

“Do you mean to take him to Winterfell, my lord?” she asked.

He admitted, “Aye, I do.”

“Can’t the Daynes look after their own fallen star?” asked Catelyn.

“He is as much a Stark as he is a Dayne,” mumbled her goodsister.

_That is the reason why he is dangerous to my son to come._

Catelyn ignored her goodsister’s remark and looked her lord husband in the eye, “What have I done to deserve such a slight, my lord?”

He flatly said, “I intend no slight to you, Cat.”

She recalled that he did not intentionally mean to slight her before, mayhaps now was nothing different, so she would have to explain it to him, “Bringing your bastard son into the home we mean to share, I would call a slight.”

“I would have him grow up at Winterfell with his brother to be, my heir.”

 

“Now you’re just making a mess of things, Ned,” added Lyanna

“Why must he come to Winterfell?” she asked.

Her goodsister surprisingly answered her, “It is a tradition amongst the Starks to take in their bastards and raise them alongside their trueborn kin.”

This was news to Catelyn, she had not read this in all her lessons of the North that she had taken pains to procure in preparation for her marriage to Brandon.

Her husband added, “Like the wolf of our sigil, we see ourselves as a pack, and the pack is strongest when together and raised as a pack. We’ve had no troubles with bastards as a result in our history.”

Catelyn expressed her doubts, “That may be so in the past, but the old washerwoman’s saying remains that one time can overturn many others.”

“If it is our son’s inheritance and security you fear, then I would say that from our history, you have more to fear from our cadet branches and the Boltons, than you do of any Stark bastards. Jon will remain my bastard for as long as I live, but I would have him know” her husband disclosed.

Their words seemed to make sense, but still those feelings gnawed at her. She would make one thing very clear.

She sighed before speaking, “You may bring him as you please, my lord. Clearly I have little say in the matter, but do not expect me to be a mother to that boy.”

Her husband seemed to let loose a breath she had not been aware that he had been holding on to. It was her goodsister who responded, much to her shock.

“You may not be his mother, but you _will_ treat him kindly,” growled her goodsister.

With some difficulty, Catelyn said, “If he proves to be as good a brother and a son as you believe he will, he will find little to complain of my treatment of him.”

But even as she said as much, she doubted that he would ever prove to be either.

“Thank you, Cat,” spoke her husband.

It was then that Catelyn asked if she might be allowed now to return to the castle. Her husband looked at her for a few moments before nodding his ascent and as quick as she could she left that blasted room and returned to the company of Lord Tytos, who escorted her all the way back to the Red Keep without incident.

Catelyn wanted to cry, but she held it back, wishing for the comfort which only solitude or her sister might be able to provide, but when she had returned to the Tower of the Hand, she was approached by her sister with troubles of her own.

“Oh Cat, where have you been? Have you heard anything of father?” asked Lysa frantically.

Catelyn answered, “No, Lysa.”

Lysa’s explanation came as quick as a lightning strike, “Last I had heard he and the King were to meet with Lord Tywin on some urgent matter! They say the Dragonstone Fleet has made sail, do you think they’ll try to take the city?”

The Dragonstone Fleet had made sail? Seven help them if that were the case—there was no fleet to defend the city if that were the case. But for the life of her, Catelyn could not find it within herself to become worked up over such news… not when the image of her husband’s bastard still plagued her thoughts.


	38. Barristan IV

  
**BARRISTAN**

It was a bad plan and nothing good would come of it, of that Ser Barristan was confident. Sending the pretender North to be raised by Stark. He could be plucked up by anyone so far from reach and used again to threaten the peace which the Queen Dowager and Princess so desired. Ser Willem seemed inclined to disagree.

“Lord Stark has a reputation that will keep none but the witless and fools from trying to pry the babe from him. I suggest you let it go, Ser, before we reach Dragonstone,” chided the elder knight, as many men of his generation had done so to Barristan in the past.

Ser Willem was right, there was naught he could do what with Varys expecting the babe on Dragonstone, and that is what bothered him about it. This was the third time he had been powerless to do something, and he hated this feeling of failure that came along with it, tremendously. First he had failed to protect the young Princes, then he had failed the Queen dowager and the Princess in the mission they had requested of him, and lastly he had failed to be a knight worthy of the lovely Ashara. Poor tragic Ashara Dayne—forced by Lord Stark to bear his bastard, and then having to hide away in Starfall for the shame of it. Lord Stark it seemed had taken two things from him—his duty to his Queen and Princess, and his lady love.

I’ll be damned if he takes any more…

He would maintain the Queen and Princess’ desire for peace, but he would have satisfaction. He had been too overwhelmed with grief over Ashara’s death to challenge him at the time—unlike young Arthur, Barristan knew when it was best to challenge a man to a duel, and in the midst of grief was hardly the time. Barristan would see the Queen and Princesses safe to King’s Landing and then he would ride north and challenge the man… yes, that seemed the most honorable thing. He would challenge him for ruining honor of Ashara. But hadn’t Arthur already done so, and lost?

_Mayhaps I should not… No! I must._

But Barristan was broken from his reverie by a cry from the lookout.

“Ser Barristan, look!” called the man from above in the lookout’s nest. Barristan shook his head to gather himself and looked in the direction the lookout was pointing. In the distance, growing ever closer there was what looked to be debris floating atop the water. What at first looked like quite a small patch of it, grew the further they sailed, and soon they were completely surrounded in a sea of what obviously was the remnants of a battle. Ser Oswell, apparently tired of trying to coax Ser Arthur out of his damned stupor, joined them atop deck and stared in utter shock. There were hardly any survivors amongst the debris. Most of the waves were filled with bloated water-logged corpses of men who had drowned—all those who lacked armor. Although they knew this sea of broken masts, tangled sails, floating corpses which stank worse than Flea Bottom, and barely alive survivors did end, while they were in it, it seemed to stretch on for eternity. Nowhere could they turn and see empty waves. For the Seven’s sake they furled up their sails and sent out the dinghy in search of survivors. Barristan and a sailor named Garth, who knew how to row quite well, manned the dinghy while they maneuvered through the sea of debris.

“Seven’s mercy, what happened ‘ere?” asked Garth as they managed to pull an extremely weak looking long haired sailor out of the sea.

The sailor took one look at Barristan and kept his mouth shut. Barristan soon found the reason why when they passed a mast which held a banner for House Lannister wrapped around it. So Tywin Lannister had come out from under his rock? For whom had he declared? Obviously the Royal Fleet had met them in battle as Barristan also saw Targaryen banners on other masts. He’d get the answer out of these survivors, but not now, not while they all looked as though they were like to die of dehydration—the ironic death of many a sailor whose ship was wrecked in salty seas. The few men they rescued were sailors of some sort—both Targaryen and Lannister—and frightened cabin boys

As they returned to the boat they passed a particularly large chunk of a mast, from which Barristan heard crying. He motioned for Garth to maneuver around the mast so that they could rescue the likely frightened cabin boy hiding in the lookout nest of the mast that was half in and out of the water. What shocked Barristan though was when he came upon the sight of not another frightened cabin boy, but that of the Princess Rhaenys!

_Seven Hells! Did Elia and Rhaella sail out with the child in an attempt to escape Dragonstone before the Lannisters arrived, only to be caught?_

“Ser Barry!” cried out the toddler gleefully at the sight of him, and Barristan had the boat come alongside the mast so he could easily pick up the soaked Rhaenys and bring her aboard the boat. The girl immediately clung to him, refusing to let go of him as she embraced him with as tight a hug as her three namedays could muster, crying onto his shoulder as he rubbed his palm against her back to soothe her. Rhaenys’ long brown hair—made crusty and stringy by the seawater blew in his face, but in that moment Barristan cared not for anything but that the Princess was happy. And it was then Barristan realized that all he wanted to do was ensure her safety and happiness for as long as he lived.


	39. Lyanna IV

**LYANNA**

“I truly have to marry him?” she asked.

Ned was silent, as he often was these days. He then took a sigh and said, “I’m not father—I won’t force you—but at the same time I will ask you to at least meet with him, and to give him a reason he can understand if you decide that you don’t want to marry him. He fought a war for you. He deserves to hear whatever you decide from your own mouth at the very least.”

Lyanna had already made her decision, long ago when she had run away with Rhaegar, no matter if she now regretted having run away into the arms of a madman who’d manipulated her emotions for his own ends. What she needed now was to be out in the open—on the back of a horse, with nothing to hold her captive in the confines of a small room. But Ned was being stubborn about her need to meet with Robert, and truthfully she could see his point. That after all was how the songs worked. The hero does his heroic deeds and thus proves his love to the maiden, and Robert thought he was the hero of a song. But she was no maiden, and if there was anything she could say to convince Robert not to take her, it would be that. No knightly hero wanted the soiled leftovers of another.

“I shall speak with him, but I would like to do so while riding. I’m tired of being couped up, Ned.” she agreed.

Her brother quietly said, “I’ll see to it.”

 

In hindsight of what was to come, Lyanna would regret ever asking this.

Howland was to stay with Jon and Den—along with the wetnurse Wylla that had been given to them when they left Starfall—since he had the most experience having had a daughter before marching south.

Upon leaving the boat, Lyanna was given a voluminous cloak to wear about her, and shown to a beautiful black mare, whose coat glistened in the sun as though it were a polished rock. Ned, Lord Willam Dustin, and Ethan Glover joined her. Willam Dustin was mounted upon a brilliant red stallion that his wife Barbrey had given him before riding south with Ned. Willam and Ethan attempted to prod her quiet brother into conversation—but Ned remained as silent as though he already were a statue in the crypts. Whenever Lyanna attempted to speak with Willam and Ethan, they smiled, gave her a polite response and then decidedly returned to speaking solely with one another or working on Ned. Eventually Lyanna simply gave up attempting to speak with either of them.

“And what about you, Ethan, do you yet know whom you are to marry when you get home?” asked Willam as they rode around the walls of the city to their meeting spot with Robert.

“Lord Cerwyn’s daughter—my father wrote me right before I rode south with Brandon.”

“Jonelle Cerwyn? Well… I’ll say you could be stuck with worse women for a wife. A plain faced lady is no shame, and she has fine child-bearing hips, from what I remember of her,” added Willam

“Is she that awful that that is her only good quality?” groaned Ethan.

“You could always try for one of your sworn bannermen's women... I hear Gregor Forrester has a comely sister,” suggested Willam.

“It’s a wonder you did not go for her yourself,” countered Ethan.

Willam Dustin blushed, and fumbled about his words in response saying, “Barbrey was quite… well… convincing…”

This caused Ethan to break out into laughter, and for Lyanna to roll her eyes in irritation. She could hardly take listening to more of this banter and so she spurred on her horse until they came to the River Gate, where they would meet with Robert. As they approached Lyanna began to feel sick from the awful stench which wafted from the Kingswood and the river—which was quite low from the presumable lack of rain they had been suffering from. Rotting dead fish floated upon the surface here and there in the water, causing Lyanna to feel even more tempted to vomit in response. Robert was there, with two white cloaked Kingsguard beside him, one of whom Lyanna recognized as Ser Mark Ryswell. Robert sat tall upon a chestnut colored stallion, dressed in a fine riding clothes with the emblem of a crowned stag upon his doublet. He was a sight to behold, and he spurred his horse out to greet hers upon sight. His two Kingsguard following behind. Once reaching her horse, Robert dismounted his steed, coming and kissing her hand—no doubt having planned on doing so.

“My future Queen,” he said with much devotion.

“Rob—your grace,” she caught herself. This was going to be harder than she thought, considering the look he gave her. And she would have to speak with him alone.

Robert continued, “I was told you wished to speak with me while we rode—I thought we might take a ride through the Kingswood.”

They rode at a good pace, Lyanna finding that Robert and his stallion were quite capable of keeping up with her. He was not a bad horseman, of that Lyanna could honestly say.

_But then horses aren’t the only things he rides…_

The stench grew worse after they had forded the river and entered the woods.

“Gods, what is the cause of that awful smell?” asked Lyanna

“Remnants of the battle, Lyanna,” commented Ned, suddenly appearing beside her. And suddenly Lyanna began to take notice of things she had not noticed before—the stains of blood upon trees and the ground, grown dark with age.

“This was a battlefield?” asked Lyanna

“Aye, it was Ned’s choice to do battle here and take the Dornish by surprise before they could reinforce the capital. The Silent Sisters have either burned or cleaned most of the 10,000 Dornishmen and sent their bones south, and what they didn’t get, the animals have been feasting on or left for carrion.”

Ten thousand Dornishmen died on Ned’s command. She looked to Ned at that moment, suddenly seeing her brother in a far different light. Her sweet Ned had done this?

_“Ned… what did you do?”_

_“What I had to… to get you back…”_

As they continued on, they passed here and there a hand, a foot, or a head which the animals had obviously left it for being too rotten at this point—though they were a feast for flies and grubs. And all the while Lyanna could not get out of her head that this, this was all the work of Ned’s. Her brother who had snuck her a wooden sword to practice with when he caught her and Benjen batting with sticks in the godswood, who was always there to support her. She thought he had been overexaggerating… but gods no, Ned hadn’t. And what was worst of all was that she had done this, by running away she had turned sweet Ned into some kind of… bloodthirsty monster.

_No, he still is sweet beneath it all. I’ve seen that of him. Yet he still did these things in the name of finding me. Gods… forgive me… I did not want this to happen. I just wanted freedom._

At once Lyanna felt a chill run down her back and she knew before she even looked up that when she did she would see either her father or Brandon—but instead she saw Ned… charging through a line of Dornish spearmen—slaughtering them easily with swings from Ice. Lyanna could only stare on in horror, pulling back on her reins.

_What can I do to be free from such visions?_

“Are you all right?” asked the real Ned beside her, and Lyanna jumped at his touch of her arms.

“Should we turn back, my lady?” asked Robert concernedly.

“Please… I’m quite tired, and I think I’ve had enough riding this day…” said Lyanna with a certain quiver to her voice.

“We’ll continue our discussion on the morrow then, my lady, if you are quite weary,” assured Robert.

That night Lyanna prayed to the gods for an answer to her question of how to be free from these horrifying visions. The last thing she wanted to do was to see Ned like that. She had endured seeing father and Brandon believing it was her punishment for her actions, but seeing Ned as the bloody monster he had had to become… that was too much to bear. So she begged, asking what could she do to make amends and bring an end to these visions. She fell asleep doing so, receiving her answer in a dream.

And so the next morning she went with Ned to the Red Keep—along the way hearing whispers and rumors as she passed, where names reached her ears, “Wolf Bitch” was one, but the most frequent that she heard tell of was “The Great Whore”. Each time Ned would hear such talk he’d cast a frozen glare at the smallfolk man or woman who’d uttered it, but Lyanna couldn’t help but wonder if deep down he actually agreed with the terms. Even considering the possibility made Lyanna’s heart sink in sadness.

Lyanna met with Robert after he, Ned, and Lord Hoster spoke in private. Afterwards Robert came to speak with her alone. Robert began by asking her about the men who had attacked her at the Tower of Joy—she was surprised by this question but did her best to describe the giant of the two who by far had been the most memorable. This sent Robert into a furious temper which eventually abated with promises to see Lord Tywin dead himself before they married. Upon this turn of the subject Lyanna told Robert that she would marry him—but with a few conditions. First that the wedding would be held off for a year to allow Lyanna the chance to recover from her ordeal, which Robert agreed to by saying that it would be barbaric after what she had undergone to expect an immediate wedding. Second that he would cut out sleeping with whores and fathering more bastard children.

She urged, “Treat the ones which you have had kindly, but after we have married I expect you to keep to our bed alone.”

This condition seemed to shock Robert, but with much trepidation he agreed to it, asking if he could bring his daughter, Mya Stone, to the capital. Thinking of Ned’s son, Lyanna stopped to consider such an action before saying, “Bring her to the capital for all you like, if you feel that you can treat her kindly by doing so, but she will not live inside the Red Keep.”

Her last condition was that she be allowed to pursue what interests and hobbies she liked without censure. With these terms negotiated, Lyanna prayed that the gods were satisfied and that her visions would abate.


	40. Doran

**DORAN**  
  
When the letter from Dragonstone had come, Doran knew not at first how to react. Elia was making peace with the usurper? What is she thinking? Is she under pressure from having been captured by forces loyal to the usurper?  
  
He read further on, hearing a tale of his niece's kidnapping by Varys and her rescue, not to mention of the Lannister’s opportunistic attempt to try and catch the island by surprise. But what sent his blood boiling was the attempted assassination of his sweet sister Elia by a man supposedly loyal to the former Master of Whispers—as had been beaten out of him by the Lannister Kingsguard, coincidentally enough. And then there was the Aegon plot which Elia wrote that Varys had attempted to pull, with Elia suggesting Blackfyre involvement from the documents that had been found after he had left. That she could openly and frankly write to him of her desire for vengeance against her assassins led Doran to believe that she believed her letters were not being monitored. If her letters were being written for her or she forced to write suing for peace, there would have been more obligatory "help the King"s and "secure the King's realm"s to her letter. Language much more deferential in nature, and hardly anything a Martell would truly write. Instead she wrote as though she were still considered a leading member of the royal family, as any Martell would. With this in mind, Doran could accept that the letter came from Elia and reflected her true thoughts--though this tale of the convenient reappearance of Blackfyres did mark Doran as somewhat suspicious.  
  
There was one thing which was beyond all suspicion from her letter, Elia was in danger of her life, and Doran would not stand for that, nor would Oberyn. He found his impulsive younger brother practicing with his spear among the practice yard. Since having returned from the free cities he had taken to doing as such without his shirt—apparently with the hopes of finding the next woman to sire yet another Sand Snake—as if four daughters weren’t enough for him. His brother’s latest interest was Lord Uller’s bastard daughter. But today Doran did not find her amongst the throng of onlookers of women, and his brother seemed to have instead settled for a white silk shirt which revealed just as much as if he had chosen not to wear a shirt at all. Doran frowned at his younger brother’s desire to show off like a peacock, but then that trait would come in use with what Doran had in mind for him.  
  
“She asks us to make peace with the man who slaughtered our soldiers at the Kingswood,” grumbled Oberyn with disgust after having read the letter. They walked from the practice yard through a series of courtyards, ending in a magnificent garden that their ancestor Lord Mors Martell had designed and had built nearly a thousand years ago upon the victory of Nymeria’s War for his wife the same said Nymeria. They weren’t as grand or lovely as the Water Gardens, in fact they seemed by comparison to be a crude forefather, but Doran still found pleasure in their cool pools and columned architecture adorned with plants that had been brought from the Rhoyne river valley. He and Oberyn strolled through them leisurely as they talked.  
  
Doran, used to tempering his younger brother’s anger, did so out of habit, but also using the opportunity to remind himself why committing to this plan he was beginning to think up might be a good idea, “Despite having killed them they have been sending the bones of our noble bannermen home with the Silent Sisters. More importantly, our sister thinks this promised marriage alliance she and the dragon queen have hatched up might work.”  
  
Oberyn continued, “To see my niece wedded to the son of that she-wolf whore would be a travesty. Elia has taken leave of her senses.”  
  
Doran knew the line which he would have to drill into his younger brother, “She has been attacked once, and Rhaenys kidnapped already no doubt she wishes to see herself and our niece safe by whatever promise she thinks is necessary.”  
  
“A convenient attempt to occur nearly the same day as the Lannister fleet was to attack,” countered Oberyn.  
  
“If Lannister had planned that assassin to kill our sister, then why would he send a fleet to seize Dragonstone at all?” asked Doran.  
  
For this Oberyn had no answer, and he seemed to ponder Doran’s words, eventually giving in with a perturbed grunt. Even more interestingly, Doran felt that he had nearly convinced himself of the potential Blackfyre threats Elia wrote of.  
  
“Our sister wishes to see our family blood continue to sit upon the Iron Throne. For everything else that can be said, I am not sorry to see mad Aerys dead. He used our sister, her children, and her retinue as hostages to ensure our loyalty. Nor am I sorry one bit to see that Seven damned Rhaegar meet the end he has. Both men gave unforgivable offenses to our family. It is a pity that neither Aegon nor Viserys could have been spared so that my little Arianne could have had a king for a husband, but no matter. In the end we have simply traded for another distant cousin to sit upon the Iron Throne with our niece to wed his future son… and I did not have to lift a finger to bring this about.” He sighed then, seeing the path forward, “If our sister desires this arrangement, I will not oppose her.”  
  
“Are you mad?!” spat Oberyn  
  
Doran gave his brother a glance which quieted him soon enough so that he could explain further, “In these peace negotiations I would of course insist upon a few certain things: first the return of our nuncle Lewyn’s bones. Second, that Lannister is swiftly dealt with. And lastly, since Varys has left the capital it would seem that our stag cousin is lacking in a Master of Whispers. What better way to protect our sister from these Essosi assassins and bloody Northern barbarians than from such a position?”  
  
Oberyn turned to him and asked warily, “What are you planning?”  
  
“A foothold in the door, just a foothold in the door…” replied Doran, smirking as he looked at his little brother.


	41. Denys IV

**DENYS**  
  
Since Robert had raised Ned to the new position of Commander of Arms and Men, and renamed the position of Master of Ships, Commander of Ships for his brother Stannis, Denys had been intrigued by the small reforms to the court which his usually jovial friend was interested in making. At first he had wondered if these reforms were inspired by any amount of zeal of being a good king. Denys quickly dismissed most of these notions when it became apparent that Robert was trying to delegate the powers of the King that he found rather boring to those whom he felt could do a better job in his name than he had the patience to commit himself to. One of these was the expansion of Denys’ role as Master of Laws, renamed the Lord Justice of the Realm, or simply the Lord Justice as he was now referred to in council.   
  
In addition to being an advisor to the King on the administration of justice, as well as supervising the dungeons of the Red Keep, the chief undergaoler, undergaolers, and the King’s Justice—whom had yet to have been replaced—and being whom the gold cloaks of the City Watch reported to, Denys now was to preside over all trials in the King’s stead which Robert did not take personal interest in, which turned out to be the majority of them. These additional duties kept Denys so busy in addition to his need to establish himself as Lord Paramount of the Vale that Denys nearly felt he had to decline one job in order to fulfill the other.   
  
Lysa however suggested something else—that he appoint an official to manage the more menial tasks--such as managing the dungeons, the undergaolers and chief undergaoler of the Red Keep. She suggested fingerlord, Lord Baelish’s son Petyr, but Denys felt that such a position was far too much responsibility to place on the shoulders of a boy who had just seen his fifteenth nameday and had yet to prove himself in any capacity. Instead he would find some other man to fill the role, though he appreciated Lysa’s advice on the matter. Lord Manly Stokeworth, who reported to him as Lord Commander of the City Watch, spoke highly of Janos Slynt, but Denys wanted to be sure that the man who represented him when he was away in the Vale was a man with honor and of good character. He would have to meet with this Janos Slynt.  
  
There were a few trials which were the exception to Robert’s indifference, and one of these was the public trial of Lord Tywin Lannister for the attempted assassination of Lyanna Stark. As part of the continuing peace negotiations between Dragonstone and Dorne, new conditions to the agreement had been made to account for the treachery of the head of House Lannister, which with some grumbling Robert was persuaded to accept. As such Tywin was to be brought to trial and held accountable for his crimes against the Royal Family in addition to the attempted assassination of Lyanna Stark.  
  
Thinking back, Denys recalled that upon the arrival of the news of Lord Tywin’s unannounced naval campaign from Hoster Tully's man on Dragonstone, and the fleet's subsequent failure to seize Dragonstone, he had been stripped of his duties as Master of Coin and kept under guard and close observation. He was not officially arrested, but at the same time not permitted to leave the Red Keep either. It wasn’t until Ned and Lyanna had returned that enough evidence against Lord Tywin was gathered with cause for an arrest. Denys urged for caution—less they spark up war with the Westerlands—though as it turned out upon news of Lord Tywin’s arrest the Grand Maester had sent immediate word to Casterly Rock to call what bannermen they had left, and it seemed further warfare would be inevitable. Making peace with the Targaryens and their loyalists became ever more paramount, and it was with this in mind that Robert accepted. Pycelle was likewise arrested after that stunt and a messenger was sent to Oldtown with the request for a new Grand Maester.  
  
It was a load off both of Denys’ and Hoster’s worried minds when the day finally came that the Queen Dowager and Princesses returned to the city, as accompanied by the brother of Princess Elia, Prince Oberyn Martell, who as part of the accepted terms of peace was to take up a role on the Small Council as Master of Whisperers—replacing that of the eunuch Varys whom apparently had attempted to kidnap the youngest Princess. Along with them came the four missing Kingsguard, which was a matter that would have to be dealt with later.  
  
The delegation’s arrival was marked with triumph and much pomp. Robert received them personally with as much cordiality as he could muster, Denys urging him to put on a good show for the smallfolk, and to anyone who would not have known Robert he was all smiles and good cheer, but Denys could tell quite obviously that it was strained, that is until he saw the scarred Queen Dowager, at which point a burst of genuine outrage at her state appeared.  
  
“Cousins, we are glad to see that despite the vile treachery of the Lannisters and that damned eunuch, you are all safe. Though I would see the villain who left you with such marks upon you my royal cousin punished!” boldly announced Robert as they met at the docks with the remnants of the Royal Fleet. In the naval battle with the Westerlands Fleet, they had reportedly just thrashed one another quite well—leaving the Westerlands fleet mostly sunk or ruined, and capturing what had remained. But this victory had come at a terrible cost for the Royal Fleet, leaving them with only a small number of their previously large fleet. Stannis would have a tough task ahead of him as Commander of Ships, but it would be made easier with the Royal Fleet under his command.  
  
“On behalf of my gooddaughter and granddaughter, we thank you, for your concern, your grace. As to the villain who gave me these marks, the late King has already been suitably punished by the gods” stated Rhaella regally as she curtseyed to Robert.  
  
“My apologies for my plain tongue, but may the man burn in all seven hells for what he has done to you!” blustered Robert as he took her hand and brought Rhaella up from her curtsey.  
  
“You’ll find no complaints from me for your wishes, your grace,” acknowledged Rhaella.  
  
Robert continued with, “Of course. Now let me see my future goodsister and gooddaughter.”  
  
He then greeted Elia and little Rhaenys with the utmost of courtesy, adding afterwards, “I was saddened to hear of the attempt on your life cousin, and the abduction of your daughter. I hope that with the assistance of your brother here, we can find the treacherous villains responsible!”  
  
Elia stood leaning heavily against a staff, unable to stand on her own for the moment due to the injury to her back. Little Rhaenys clung to her mother’s skirts, either out of shyness or fear of something.  
  
“Indeed, that would be the fulfillment of my greatest wish, your grace,” complied the Princess.  
  
Robert smiled at Princess Elia and then turned to Prince Oberyn and said, “I must say that it is a pleasure to meet you, Prince Oberyn, I have heard you’ve traveled the Free Cities.”  
  
“I have, your grace,” acknowledged the Prince with a surprised smirk.  
  
“I thought one day to do the same, well of course before the war. We must speak some time about them when you have the time,” promised Robert with a strained good-nature.  
  
It was then that Ser Barristan Selmy and the three missing Kingsguard did bend the knee to Robert, pledging to serve him as well as they had the last king. Ser Arthur took some discernable looks from his fellow Kingsguard members, but he too did bend the knee. Ser Arthur appeared the worse for wear, looking quite unkempt and bedraggled. Denys held his breath, it was known from the report Lyanna Stark had given that Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell had assisted Rhaegar in her abduction. Denys could also see Hoster Tully growing quite worried about Robert’s potential reaction to them. Denys saw Robert’s eyes bulge, and he feared that all this good will he had just sewed would be abandoned. Instead he merely let out a grieved breath of air before focusing once again on Ser Barristan.  
  
“Rise Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime, I have been told that you two have distinguished yourselves as the most honorable knights in the defense of our cousins. Ser Barristan I would be honored to see you as the new Lord Commander of my Kingsguard. Ser Oswell, Ser Arthur, I have heard of your… conduct from my betrothed herself, and we will speak of it in a more… appropriate place.”   
  
When the mummer’s farce had ended, Hoster and Denys both sighed with relief. There would be peace for the nonce, at the very least. It would be a shaky peace, but still a peace nonetheless.


	42. Jaime III

**JAIME**  
  
When word of his father’s treachery—both through the navy and the men he had sent to the Tower of Joy—had reached him, Jaime became worried and yet a little smug as well. What would become of the Lannister family name that his father was so intent to preach about when the full extent of his treacheries became known? But then he thought again and another question floated through his mind:  
  
 _What will happen to Tyrion and Cersei?_  
  
Tyrion should by rights be Lord of the Westerlands if father was stripped of his titles—but he was far too young to take it, having not even seen ten namedays yet. A regent would have to be found, and Cersei and Tyrion would be taken under their care. And with father’s actions it would be unlikely that a regent from their own family would be named unless one of them abandoned father. None of his father’s siblings would do that, father had scared them into cowtowing to him far too much—of that Jaime felt he was certain. Unless of course he could convince father to write to his uncles and aunt and stop this madness before it could begin. Mayhaps he could even convince his father to confess his crimes and get him to take the black, so he could live. After all, for everything that his father had done or not done, he was still his father, and Jaime would wish that no harm would come to him if at all possible.  
  
He met Breton Highwaters, a thin gangly man with too much neck and the newly appointed Chief Undergaoler by Lord Arryn, who took him to see his father. Father luckily was not being kept in the Black Cells, but instead in the second level of the dungens with the other highborn prisoners. He was let in and locked inside. It was a sight to see—his father acted like any caged lion, snarling at the entrance of Jaime until he recognized him, and then his countenance simply changed to that of a quiet sneer. He sat upon the floor, and Jaime marveled for a brief moment that it was the first time he had ever seen his father sit upon the ground without something beneath him.  
  
“And whom sent you?” asked his father.  
  
“No one, father,” answered Jaime.  
  
He scoffed at Jaime’s words, shaking his head, “Father? Well at least you still remember I sired you, I guess that is worth something to you at least.”  
  
Jaime gritted his teeth, steeling himself to his father’s words, and said, “I’m here to help our family.”  
  
His father mocked him, saying “And dirty your clean white cloak by letting me out? Your honor wouldn’t dare do such a thing.”  
  
“This has nothing to do with my honor!” protested Jaime, feeling his pride scratched at.  
  
“It has everything to do it! I used to think that your brother was the great mistake of our family, but no, you and your damnable honor have proven me quite wrong on that accout. Family comes before everything. Even Tullys recognize that Family becomes before Honor—mayhaps I should have married you to that Tully girl, he might have knocked some sense into you. You would be my heir, and right now you might be gathering what little forces remain and marching to free me, like a true son should.”  
  
Jaime scoffed, “Don’t give up just yet, you still might get your wish from your brothers. Pycelle wrote to the Rock.”  
  
His father snorted, “Did he now? Now that sounds like something useful.”  
  
He felt the need to hammer home his point, “And because of it, the whole kingdom is likely to go to war again, because what you did. How many more innocents’ blood will be shed because of your wounded pride?”  
  
His father spoke quietly, but firmly, his typical voice for when he was beginning to grow angry, “What I did was for the sake of our family name. By the time we had entered the war—”  
  
“And whose fault is that that you sat out the war?” asked Jaime with a knowing smirk.  
  
Silence reigned in the cell for a long stretch of time.  
  
His father said nothing in response to this. Instead when he finally did speak, he changed the subject by switching to another question, “Who knew that this Northern barbarian, this ‘Bloody Wolf’ as they call him would end the war so quickly? We have long underestimated the Starks and the North since they bent the knee to Aegon… no one will do that again.”  
  
Jaime reached into the satchel he had brought and pulled out what he had intended to bring his father, “I brought parchment, a quill, and some ink. Write a letter to the Rock, proclaim Tyrion your heir and uncle Kevan as regent, and ask them to stand down. I’ll send the raven myself.”  
  
“Impossible,” snarled Tywin without a moment’s consideration.  
  
“I am trying to ensure the survival of our family!” insisted Jaime, practically throwing what he had brought into his father’s lap.  
  
“Unless I am very much mistaken in how the battle took place, your Uncle Kevan was aboard ship with your Uncle Gerion—and now they both lay at the bottom of the Narrow Sea along with your uncle’s boat.”  
  
There was silence once again as his father’s words sunk into Jaime’s thoughts.  
  
 _Uncle Kevan and Uncle Gerion… dead? Seven help Tyrion when he finds out Gerion is dead! This is worse than I thought._  
  
“Then Uncle Tygett! Write to Uncle Tygett,” urged Jaime.  
  
“No,” dismissed his father without another thought.  
  
Silence, yet again.  
  
“So you’ll just let Cersei and Tyrion’s fate up to the Seven? You never struck me as a holy man,” remarked Jaime with more than a bit of sarcasm.  
  
His father said only one word, but it was all he had to say, “Leave.”  
  
Sensing that he’d get nothing out of staying any longer, Jaime stuffed the parchment, quill, and ink back into his satchel and knocked on the cell’s door. As he waited for Breton to return, he turned to his father and said, “You told me that nothing was ever so important as family—now you’re just abandoning them to fate?”  
  
His father began to laugh, finally saying “And now I see exactly where I failed. Family is more than just the people who make it up—it’s the name, a legacy that lives on far after you or I or your brother and sister are long dead and buried. You can take your whitecloak and at the end of the day where does it get you? Standing around as an unpaid goldcloak. But our family name? It will all come to dust because of you.”  
  
Jaime took a deep breath before speaking, “Despite what you may think, I listened. But consider this: who exactly brings shame to our family name? The Kingsguard who helped defend and rescue the Royal Family from certain destruction? Or the man who tried to have several of its members killed?”  
  
His father was silent as he left, and Jaime knew he would have to write himself, pray his uncle Tygett listened to him, and beg the King for mercy for the sake of his brother and Cersei. Jaime set his sights to finding the King first.  
  
When he found the King, he was in the midst of speaking with Lords Tully, Arryn, and Stark over the subject of his fellow Kingsguard as he came to ask the King about the fate of his siblings. Ser Lyn Corbray, a recently raised brother of the Kingsguard, stood guarding the door before Jaime entered.  
  
“They kept Lyanna in a tower for several months while the man raped her! They sat back and did nothing! I should have their heads for this!" roared the King.  
  
The ‘Bloody Wolf’, oddly enough called for mercy, “By Lyanna’s own admission they also saved her life from Tywin’s men.”  
  
The King took a deep breath before speaking in a lessened, but still enraged fury, “I’ll have their knighthood stripped from them at the very least! Defend the weak?! Where were their vows when a woman was being raped? Well?”  
  
Jaime froze at that moment as he recalled the screams of the Queen Dowager ringing in his ears as the late King had his way with her.  
  
“Ser Jaime, you wanted to speak with us?” asked Lord Arryn.  
  
“Aye… ‘tis about my siblings, your grace.”  
  
“Let me guess, you’ve come to beg that they be spared my fury.”  
  
Jaime began, “Indeed, your grace. My little brother, Tyrion has not yet seen ten namedays, and my twin sister… she…” but he sputtered out, not knowing what to say of Cersei without giving his true feelings for her away.  
  
“She is of marriageable age,” clarified the King.  
  
“She is your grace,” admitted Jaime.  
  
 _Seven please … don’t ask this of me…_  
  
“And quite the beauty if I recall Harrenhal correctly…” commented the King.  
  
 _If only I could have her in my arms…_  
  
“She might be wed to my brother, your grace,” interjected Lord Tully.  
  
“Aye, that sounds reasonable, and he could take your younger brother to ward. How’d you like that Ser Jaime, being goodbrothers with the Blackfish!” added the King.  
  
 _He doesn’t miss an opportunity to sell his family for political marriages, does he? But am I any better? At least they’d be alive and the family could one day recover… they’d be safe… and besides the Blackfish is well known for refusing to marry…_  
  
“I would like that very much your grace… and Lord Tully. And my Uncle Tygett and Aunt Genna?” asked Jaime.  
  
Lord Arryn spoke, like the Lord Justice he was, “Being well of age to decide for themselves, if they raise arms against their King they would meet with the full consequences of that action.”  
  
“But if I were to write to them, beg them not to take up arms?” asked Jaime.  
  
“I can understand your desire to see your family well protected, but do you truly think they would not take up arms to rescue your father?” asked the Bloody Wolf.  
  
Jaime did not respond—he didn’t have to, the answer was far too obvious. Hear me Roar. His house words, they spoke of pride—and a lion does not take too well to seeing their pride hurt.  
  
Still it was worth a chance, “With your permission your grace, I would ask to still make the attempt. You can read my letter to my uncle all you wish. I will only tell him of the… generous offer you have made my family in this… troubling time.”  
  
He was given leave to do so, with Lord Arryn accompanying him to the rookery. Once they had climbed the numerous steps to the top of the Grand Maester’s Tower—how the near ancient Pycelle had managed to climb these stairs several times a day, Jaime knew not—they found the rookery overflowing with ravens with messages, several of which bore the red seal and lion stamp of Casterly Rock. Before sitting down to write, Jaime thought it necessary to read these letters—and so he and Lord Arryn began the arduous task of doing so. Jaime had not gotten very far into the first letter when a word he had not hoped to ever see appeared for the first time in that series of letters: _Ironborn_.


	43. Arthur IV

**ARTHUR**  
  
He was not officially a prisoner—at least he did not think so—but he might as well have been one considering he was confined to the White Sword Tower with only Ser Oswell for company—well when Oswell decided to deign him with his presence that was. In his time here, Arthur reminded himself that he rather liked the taste of wine—it did not matter whether it was red, gold, arbor, dornish—anything tasted good when it helped him to forget for just a little while the looks he saw upon many different faces—Ser Jaime’s, Ser Barristan’s, the Queen’s, Aster’s, Elia’s… she was the worst of them all. Little Rhaenys looked on him as though she had quite forgotten who he was—not that he could blame her, she had been quite young when he had left with Rhaegar.   
  
Having nothing better to do than wait for the King to remember he existed and call upon him, Arthur got up and on a whim looked at himself in the mirror. The light was dim as he had no candles lit and the sun had only just set, leaving naught but the misty light of twilight to give discernment through the room. His vision was hazy from the wine but his mind felt sharp in a kind of drunken intelligence, recording everything that was occurring so that it might judge and denounce him later when he became sober. Clearly he had not drunk enough wine so he could forget. He squinted and in doing so saw in the dim light his reflection. He had not shaved for days and was beginning to grow a beard like Stark had, not that he was trying. He had replaced the tattered clothing with plain clothes that a smallfolk might wear—no need to dress his best when he was confined to this tower after all. His face was flushed, bags under his eyes, and overall he simply looked terrible. His wound across his chest had mostly scabbed by this point, though it was still rather wince worthy to the touch.   
  
_Seven hells I’m a mess…_  
  
He took another swig of the wine glass he had brought with him and then staggered back and collapsed into his chair by his table. It was then he heard a knock at his chamber door. He grunted so that they could enter—not truly caring who it was and why they came to see him. They’d say their say and leave if he just let them, rather than screaming it for the entire tower to hear—best to just let them come in and get it over with.  
  
He was surprised when a servant brought a candelabra in and placed it on his table, creating a source of light from which she offered to light the others in the room—but she did not ask him if he wanted the candles lit. She instead asked someone else who had entered the room but had not yet left the threshold. The servant took a long thin stick and then went about the immediate vicinity of his table and chair lighting nearby candles. To see who it was barging into his chambers at this hour, he groggily turned and saw a blurry form of what he took to be a woman. It was either Elia or the Queen, come to give him a speech of how he was a Kingsguard and should behave like one or if it were Elia…  
  
 _“Tell me why you did it!” she had demanded of him. While all the while her eyes asked, ‘Why did you abandon us?’_  
  
Well, he had enough trouble with remembering too much as it was.  
  
What caught him off guard about his visitor was that he heard a gurgle from the figure. He was confused until the figure crossed and sat across from him in the only other chair he had in his chambers. The servant by this point had lit the small corner of his room and was easily dismissed by her: the she-wolf, who came carrying Jon. Arthur stared at his nephew, seeing by comparison that the wisps of hair that Jon had were Ashara’s shimmering dark brown hair which were a shade darker than the she-wolf’s, but other than that, Jon could pass for the she-wolf’s own pup. And that thought itself made Arthur bubble with anger.  
  
“Why are you here?” he asked once the servant girl had left and closed the door behind her.  
  
“You paid me the courtesy of a little visit when I was confined and out of my senses once so that I could see my nephew. I thought it only right to return the favor,” said the she-wolf with a rather pointed smile—he did not like that smile. But she held out their shared nephew and after a moment’s hesitation of him telling his arms to move, he took hold of his nephew, nearly dropping him onto his chest.  
  
“Careful now, he’s a babe, not a shield,” scolded the she-wolf wryly.  
  
Arthur held his young nephew close, allowing him to look at him. He accidentally blew a sour drunken breath onto his nephew’s face which scrunched up at the smell and mewed with several complaints. Arthur felt ashamed of himself, seeing his nephew react as such.  
  
The she-wolf then spoke, oddly with a gentle tone, “Ned won’t be opposed to you being completely separated from him all his life, you know… he’ll want him to know you. He just wants you to sort out yourself first.”  
  
“Why are you telling me this?” asked Arthur.  
  
“Consider it a peace offering, Ser Arthur. You’ve lost a sister and I’ve lost a brother—the war has taken many more that we’ve known in more ways than one, and besides that we have a nephew in common. Cannot we be cordial for _his_ sake?” asked the she-wolf.  
  
Arthur’s senses may have been dulled, but he wasn’t completely blind. Though mayhaps his life would have been easier had he been born blind. There were other motives at play here, he could sense them.  
  
“Aye, but why remind me of this here and now?” asked Arthur as Jon fussed about against him, seemingly trying to find some comfortable position to curl up in, like a little wolf pup.  
  
The she-wolf sighed and then said, “The King is going to dismiss you and Ser Oswell from the Kingsguard. He wanted to have you killed but since I told him of how both of you rescued me at the peril to your lives from those men Lord Tywin sent, he's been convinced to be rather lenient. For that he won’t have you killed or take the black—but he will take your white cloaks and your knighthoods.”  
  
“And who convinced him to do that?” asked Arthur, hardly believing a word he was hearing.  
  
The she-wolf said simply, “My brother did.”  
  
 _Stark did that? Why would Stark do him any favors?_  
  
“Why?” he demanded.  
  
The she-wolf repeated herself, “As I said, one day he’d like for Jon to know you.”  
  
To this Arthur had no response. But the more he thought on it, the angrier he became—he didn’t need anyone’s help. He deserved whatever he got.  
  
 _But so does she…_  
  
At this thought, Arthur met the she-wolf’s eyes and asked, “While you were talking to your betrothed, did you tell him how you ran into Rhaegar’s arms at Winterfell?”  
  
Jon mewed in complaint once again as Arthur’s sour breath passed by his nose. Arthur began to soothingly rub his thumb against his nephew’s back, like he once saw Amyrilla do for Allyria when he had visited Starfall. Almost instantly his young nephew sighed contentedly and closed his eyes.  
  
The she-wolf met his gaze and replied calmly, for once betraying no emotion as she said, “I hold no secrets from my betrothed. I told him everything—from how Rhaegar seduced me to how eventually I learned what a fool I had been and how your Prince had to resort to raping me to get his damned third head of the dragon. It wasn’t a pleasant conversation—let me tell you.”  
  
“And yet he’s fool enough to marry you?” scoffed Arthur.  
  
“And yet he still wishes to marry me,” confirmed the she-wolf with a groan.  
  
Arthur told her flatly, “I don’t believe you.”  
  
The she-wolf shrugged her shoulders and leaned back in her chair, “I care not if you believe me, but ask him yourself about it if you wish, whenever you see him next.”  
  
“Which will be?” asked Arthur  
  
“Soon, I imagine. I know not when. They might be too busy planning for war at the moment," replied the she-wolf off-handedly.  
  
His thumb stopped its slow circular patterns against Jon’s back as he asked, “War?”  
  
 _Not another one. Hadn’t Elia said they would bring peace?_  
  
The she-wolf seemed to bubble with excitement at that moment, as though happy to share the latest gossip. For just a moment, Arthur saw not the she-wolf sitting across from him, but his own sister, and he thought himself back in Starfall. But in that instant that he recognized it and the vision was shattered. She said, “Aye, the Iron Islands, hearing that Aerys, Aegon, and Viserys were dead, declared their independence and seeing the Westerlands' fleet and army had left Lannisport, have been reeving the defenseless Westerlands. And from what I’ve heard, when the Westerlands heard news that Lord Tywin was arrested, Tygett Lannister offered to disavow and disown all loyalty to his own brother in exchange for assistance against the Ironborn.”  
  
 _Tywin Lannister has been abandoned by his own family?! The Ironborn must have burnt Lannisport to the ground and be knocking at the gates of Casterly Rock._  
  
His stunned silence gave her opportunity to add, “Unlike you, I share what knowledge of what is going on in the world that I’ve found out.”  
  
There was a moment's silence.  
  
“And yet this doesn’t explain why you came to visit me,” reminded Arthur, almost having forgot what his true line of questioning had been.  
  
“Truly it is so you can see your nephew one last time, before we leave.”  
  
“Leave?” asked Arthur, unconsciously holding on to Jon tighter as he said the word.  
  
“Aye. My goodsister, and I are to travel North by boat to White Harbor and then on to Winterfell. Ned was going to lead the army North up the Kingsroad, but now seeing as they’ll be needed here in the south…”  
  
“So you brought me my nephew hoping that I’d fall apart at the sight of him and wish to come crawling with you to that frozen wasteland you call home?” deduced Arthur with a bit of a slur.  
  
“No. Looking at what you’ve become, Ned would never allow it. Not _now_ at least…” admitted the she-wolf easily enough.  
  
There was still something she wasn’t saying, and so he pressed, “Tell me the truth.”  
  
“You would not want to hear that from me,” admitted the she-wolf with a sad look upon her face.  
  
“Would I not?” asked Arthur.  
  
The she-wolf said, nothing as she rose and picked up Jon, then finally saying, “It’s getting late, and Jon should be in his cradle next to Den.”  
  
“Den?” asked Arthur.  
  
“My brother’s orphaned ward,” explained the she-wolf pointedly with a meaningful look as she adjusted Jon in her arms. Arthur knew not of who she spoke and so dismissed it.  
  
“Say goodbye to Uncle Arthur,” said the she-wolf to Jon, though she smirked at him as she said it.  
  
It wasn’t until the she-wolf and his nephew had left that Arthur began to wonder what exactly he was doing. He should be doing something… something to atone for what he had done, to recapture his honor. But what did he have left? Elia… but he couldn’t bear the sight of her eyes anymore… not the way they looked at him. And besides, the usurper was going to disown him and would likely not wish to have him anywhere near the Red Keep after having done so. And Aster had made himself perfectly clear where he stood concerning Starfall…  
  
 _And all I have left of my family is Ashara’s son… I fought for him once, why not again?_  
  
Like a mantra he dwelt on this thought, committed to remembering it when he became sober.  
  
The next morning he arose from his chair with a horrible headache, but the thought of fighting for the right to be part of Jon’s life urged him to work through the painful fogginess left behind by the wine. There would be only one way to prove to Stark that he would be ready. He would have to fight with him against the Ironborn. He would make due with what armor and sword he had on him, but that mattered not—as Arthur remembered one of his first lessons in being a knight from childhood:  
  
 _A knight is more than his sword, armor, and title—before all of that, he is a good warrior. If you’re not that, then all the fancy swords, armors, and titles in the world will hardly save your sorry ass._  
  
And a good warrior he would be.


	44. Denys V

**DENYS**  
  
Before either Arthur or Oswell were stripped of their Sers, Denys urged Robert to think about the standard he was about to set of what it meant to be a former Kingsguard, rather than leaving the idea hanging in the air undefined. Robert was setting a new precedent—that if a Kingsguard failed to uphold any of their vows they would be stripped of their white cloak and Knighthood. Denys also mentioned that Robert was creating another problem by saying that the problem of which vows to uphold above all else would be questioned, but Robert did not like to think on this problem too much.  
  
After much consideration and prodding from Denys, not to mention some quick-minded bribery with a bottle of Arbor Gold, Robert satisfied him by saying that they would not return to their place in the line of inheritance of their families’ lands and titles that they had sworn off when taking their white cloaks, but were allowed to marry and father children who would have the opportunity to take their place. This was seen as a reasonable compromise, especially for the dying House Whent of Harrenhal, of whom only Lady Shella Whent remained alive from a series of strange occurrences in the castle that no one could quite explain. But Denys put all talk of spooks and specters aside.  
  
Denys found time in his schedule to meet with Janos Slynt and a few other possible candidates for Justice of King’s Landing. Janos Slynt it turned out was a member of the gold cloaks who did not impress Denys much. When asked what he would do with a dispute over a damaged sack of flour—Denys’ determining question for each interview he gave—Janos had this to say:  
  
“Depends who has the most coin, I’d say, to pay for the damages. He that can afford it, should pay for it, eh?”  
  
That Lord Manly had suggested him in the first place made Denys wonder if Lord Manly should be considered for a replacement as well. Luckily Denys’ own inquires had landed him upon Lord Lothar Mallery, a Crownlands lord who lived quite close to King’s Landing, so attending King’s Landing in Denys’ absence would not be a tremendous deal for him. Lord Lothar was a young man—younger than Ned—who due to the war had just recently been made Lord of Mullethal. Due to that youth, Denys had almost decided not to meet with him, but had changed his mind at the last minute when the majority of the rest of the candidates either turned out to be outright corrupt like Janos Slynt, or borderline so. But when Lothar spoke of honor and even going farther by doing right by the smallfolk, Denys could tell he had a genuine passion and zeal for the idea. He would want to see justice rightly done, and so Denys appointed him as Justice of King’s Landing. As Justice of King’s Landing, he would see that in Denys’ absence all trials or judgments in King’s Landing which the King did not want to or could not take part in, Lord Lothar would do so in his name. His normal duties—no matter if Denys was in King’s Landing or not—would be to oversee the Red Keep’s dungeons, select the Chief Undergaoler who would then hire his Undergaolers. A small silver pin of a single gavel was made for Lothar to wear as a public symbol of his office, which Lord Lothar took much pride in wearing. Denys was glad someone was happy about these pins that Robert had had made for all his small council members and their subordinate positions.   
  
“The smallfolk should recognize my trusted councilors and know whom to turn to when their King cannot be there,” Robert had declared when giving him a slightly larger pin than the one Denys had given Lothar, of two crossed gavels.  
  
Since Tywin had been removed as Lord Treasurer, Robert had taken to spending a lot of extra money, stating that Aerys had left the coffers full.   
  
_Tywin might have been a scheming back-stabbing lord, but at least he was a good manager of coin and expenses._  
  
Denys knew that finding a suitable replacement for Tywin Lannister should be found soon, and Denys hoped that Lord Hoster could find just as stringent as Tywin had been—lest Robert spend half the treasury in a year.  
  
The last thing left to Denys before the gathering of his men to march for the Westerlands was his marriage. The original plan had been to wait several months before marrying Lysa, but now, knowing as he did how easy it was for a Lord Paramount to die in war, Denys recognized the need to marry sooner rather than later. Denys did not like the idea, but he had to admit Ned had secured himself through his now heavily pregnant Tully wife. Denys could only hope to do just as well himself. Should he die upon this campaign without an heir to succeed him, the Vale would fall to the closest male relative, which would likely place it in the hands of the coin collecting Arryns of Gulltown. No, Denys had a duty to the Vale as its Lord Paramount to ensure the succession—and so with slight distaste for the offense he might be causing to House Waynwood by marrying so soon after his wife’s death, Denys did his duty and married Lysa Tully.  
  
It was a small private ceremony during which Lysa Tully once again became Lady Arryn, held in the Red Keep’s small chapel. The royal family, the small council, and selected Vale bannermen were in attendance. Robert through a feast in honor of the event, and Denys worried over the exorbitant amount of coin having been spent on what he had intended to have been a small private affair, but Robert probably figured as host it was his duty to be gregarious. Or it had simply been an excuse to gorge himself on as much food and drink as he could muster.   
  
All throughout Denys compared this ceremony and reception to that which he had had with sweet Annalys. That ceremony had been held at Ironoaks and had been a much larger affair with all the Waynwood daughters running about, while the reception had been held outdoors on a fine summer’s day. Annalys had come before the septon with him with a garland of flowers done through her hair, as though she were the Maiden herself…  
  
Lysa was a beauty in her own right, but compared to the fair hair and freckled complexion of Annalys, she was too different. It was like replacing a light mahogany chest with a dark cherry chest. Each were lovely, but it was a matter of taste which determined preference.  
  
Denys had tried to convince Robert that it was unnecessary to hold a bedding ceremony, considering both Denys and Lysa were on their second marriages—but apparently Robert’s promises to put off the ceremony were forgotten. When the Bear and the Maiden Fair had begun to play, Denys gave the grinning Robert a hard glare, while Ned looked on in sympathy. Lysa then looked over to Denys with a slightly worried look. Despite her desire to seem bold, underneath it all she was a timid little thing—and that Denys took a moment to comfort, squeezing her hand and giving her a warm smile. She responded quite well to this, but unfortunately that had been when the song had come to an end and the ceremony had begun, but that one sweet moment of intimacy made the night that came after the bedding ceremony much easier for them both.


	45. Eddard V

**EDDARD**  
  
The damn silver pin was ugly, but for Robert’s sake he wore it. The symbol of the Commander of Arms and Men was of a sword crossed with a forearm making a fist. According to Robert it was supposed to be a right arm making the fist, but Ned cared not whether it was Orys Baratheon’s strong arm come again—the pin was ugly. He felt like a woman wearing her finest Southron finery with it attached to his doublet—which is why he was glad to take the damn thing off at night once he had retired to his chambers in which he slept in alone.   
  
Cat had not spoken to him once since he had been honest with her about Jon, and now he was regretting ever letting Lya talk him into telling her the whole truth. It would have been nice in these final days leading up to his departure to have shared a bed with his wife, to have held her and their unborn child growing within her close to him. It would have been far better than spending these nights sleeping alone.  
  
He though was not the only one who was alone in King’s Landing. Tywin Lannister, to everyone’s surprise, had been abandoned by his own relations once word of his backstabbing was made known to them. But that was not the worst of the news for the Westerlands Lord. When he came to trial he as expected demanded a trial by combat, to which the King himself said he would be his own champion with his warhammer.  
  
“I’ll meet any man who dares attack my family dishonorably with my own warhammer!” proclaimed Robert quite furiously.  
  
Ned, along with Hoster, the Princess, the Queen Dowager, and Denys nearly died of shock when he pronounced that—it was the first time he was sure that he had ever felt of like mind with all of them at the same moment. Tywin luckily did not feel up to meeting such a challenge himself and began the search for a champion which he never found. As was usually decreed in such a case when a person was unable or refused to fight for themselves, and the fact that no champion could be found, meant that the gods had outright declared him guilty and he was to be beheaded. The only problem to this came when Denys mentioned that a new King’s Justice had yet to have been appointed.  
  
“All the candidates that I spoke with seemed a little too eager for the position,” mentioned Denys with disgust.  
  
 _“Which is exactly the kind of man having the position of executioner breeds,” as Ned’s father had once told him when taking him as a boy out to see his first execution._  
  
“Unfortunately we have need of those kind of men, they’re a sort of evil one must endure for the good of the realm. For the day when we do without a King’s Justice is the day that guilty men will execute themselves,” reminded Hoster.  
  
“I don’t completely disagree, it is just I would rather not appoint the most eager,” reemphasized Denys, then adding, “They spoke of spilling blood like some men speak of being with a woman.”  
  
 _“The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. The gods gave the man his life, you owe them and the man the decency of looking into his eyes and listening to his last words before you take that gift away from him,” his father had told him as the early winter snows had fallen all around them, and the snow near the dead man’s body red with blood. Ned remembered being visibly shaken—though he hadn’t looked away at all. Brandon throughout had tried to get him to flinch by goading him with reminders that if he looked away that father would be very upset. But he hadn’t, which quieted Brandon right away when it was all through. It was only later that Ned discovered that Brandon, his first time, had looked away when the sword had swung._  
  
With this memory fresh in his mind, Ned grumbled, “This is why in the North the man who passes the sentence swings the sword.”   
  
Robert seemed to take particular interest in what Ned had said, asking, “The man who passes what?”  
  
Ned repeated himself for the benefit of Robert, but Denys looked at Ned as though he had spoken the bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities, while Hoster merely closed his eyes and sighed.  
  
“That’s all well and good, Ned—” began Denys with an edge of nervousness to him.  
  
But Robert cut him off saying, “I like it. It’s simple, and it shows that a man who enforces the law takes it seriously enough to do so himself. From now on there will be no more King’s Justice. Executions shall be performed in the Northern manner. After all, my son’s going to be of the North thanks to his mother, he should have something of his heritage in his reign.”  
  
“It isn’t just a Northern tradition, your grace. It is a First Men tradition. Some of my own bannermen follow the practice—whether or not they worship the Seven,” added Hoster reluctantly. The thoroughly Andal Denys then appraised Hoster as though he were shocked to see that his future goodfather allowed such practices to continue.  
  
“Well then, it’s a lost Durrandon tradition as well! All the more reason to do it!” blustered Robert as though happily having discovered something long forgotten.  
  
The day of the execution was a somber one—none of the crowd gathered expected for Robert to swing the sword himself—everyone looking for the new masked King’s Justice. It was a stunning display as the proud Lion—stubbornly silent and refusing to say any last words before he laid his head upon the block—walked up onto the platform, knelt and did so. It would be an honorable death, at the very least, of that Ned could take some relief in. Robert swung his sword and with two blows the deed was done. The speech he gave afterwards explaining the change in governance was the best Ned had ever heard Robert speak. Many in the crowd were stunned by both the sight and the news and Ned could not help but feel as though despite Robert having swung the sword, it was considered that he were thought responsible.  
  
Later that night Ned, while having mistakenly lost his way in the myriad of passageways in the Red Keep he came upon Ser Jaime sitting on a bench, leaning on a table in a dark corner of a the small hall he had entered, with a tankard of ale—and nothing else to drink from. He looked thoroughly distraught, his armor half taken off, half on, and as though he hadn’t slept in days with bags under his eyes and a general weariness to his face. He said nothing, simply staring at Ned. Ned sighed and then sat across from him. He’d seen as face like that once in a piece of Myrish glass the day he’d heard his own father had been executed. Ned said nothing for a while, and the silence between them was disturbed by neither. Eventually Ser Jaime offered him a swig of the ale, which he accepted. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve to clean his beard from the ale which clung to it. It was only after doing this that Ser Jaime spoke.  
  
“I never thought to say I’d see the day when I’d see the Bloody Wolf dribble.”  
  
The humor was unsettling, but it seemed to tear down the wall of silence between them.  
  
Ned took the fall of the silence to ask the question he had been wondering since the beginning of the trial, “Why did he not choose to fight for himself?”  
  
Ser Jaime almost snickered before saying, “That was for me. He wanted me to fight for him… to have to choose between my family and my vows…”  
  
Ned was stunned—would a father truly put that choice upon his own son?  
  
“He should not have forced such a choice,” offered Ned  
  
“It doesn’t change that he did,” was Ser Jaime’s reply as he took another swig. He then swallowed and smirked as he added, “Luckily for me, I could make a choice and honor both… like you in a way…”  
  
His confusion must have shown on his face for the whitecloaked Lion clarified, “You tore half the realm apart fighting for the lives of your younger sister and brother… I sacrificed my father.”  
  
It was then that Ser Jaime emptied the tankard and left, leaving Ned to have to mull on these thoughts. That night especially, Ned wished that he could have been able to sleep with his wife as a man should.  
  
The thoughts troubled him through the next day’s revelry of Denys’ marriage, during which he sought distraction from them on numerous occasions—eventually noticing that the Queen dowager was asked to dance by a man about her age. Though before he could ask who it was, the song had ended and The Bear and the Maiden Fair had begun to play. Cat through the entire feast was seated next to him and by all outwardly appearances was a respectful and dutiful wife, but there was a distance between them that Ned knew not how to bridge. She smiled and looked quite lovely and happy, but this he could tell was for the benefit of her sister, and no one else. If she were a few months less pregnant he might have asked her to dance—despite his disinclination to the sport—simply to have the opportunity to speak with her alone. This was after all the last night before she was to head North to Winterfell with Lya—but she remained glued to her spot and surrounded herself with a shield of people from any attempt at conversing.  
  
The next morning, he rose early to pray in the godswood before they were to head out. There was no heart tree, no weirwood in the royal godswood, but Ned still prayed, feeling for once in a long while at ease as he did. He prayed for a quick end to the war, for a safe journey for his wife, sister, son and ward to the North, he prayed for guidance in his actions, but most of all he prayed for peace. Peace of mind and peace of heart. When he was finished he knew it would be time to walk down to the harbor and see off his family—then the trek west along the Gold Road would begin.  
  
As he approached the end of the godswood, much to his surprise a clean-shaven, sober, and haphazardly armored Arthur Dayne appeared before Ned.  
  
“Lord Commander Stark,” the former whitecloak greeted with a slight bow.  
  
“Master Dayne,” replied Eddard, with a respectful nod. Ned was intrigued by the transformation that had seemed to have overtaken Jon’s uncle.  
  
 _What’s brought this about?_  
  
“I’ve been told that you and the… King mean to take your armies to meet the Ironborn in battle.”  
  
“Aye,” answered Ned, this was truth enough.  
  
Though certain words came with some difficulty to Arthur, Ned could tell that whatever thoughts he had he was trying to work through them to accomplish his task, “I would respectfully… request your permission to join your ranks as a… warrior.”  
  
 _Robert wouldn’t like it… but he’s a damned better swordsman than I’ll ever be…_  
  
“Why do you request this of me?” asked Ned  
  
“So that one day I might be worth knowing…” was Arthur’s reply.  
  
 _Jon…_   
  
And Ned heard a voice whisper in the wind, _“Jon… my son Jon…”_  
  
Hearing her voice once again, Ned knew he could not refuse the request. “Very well, I’ll have you as one of my own party—since I doubt the King would tolerate you in his company for long.”  
  
And with a nod, Arthur accepted his offer and left to join his army of Northmen, while Ned walked down to the harbor.  
  
Ser Davos—knighted by Robert for his part in assisting to bring Lyanna to King’s Landing—was to take the party heading for the North to White Harbor and from there they would journey by horse and wheelhouse to Winterfell. Ned reminded the newly made knight that the offer to take land and settle where he chose in the North was still available—to which Ser Davos said he would sail along the coast and find the land most suited to.  
  
Ned gave his goodbyes first to Den and Jon, seeing them safely tucked in and sleeping their makeshift cradle that they shared. They seemed to have at last found one another’s company agreeable as they had curled up close to one another, limbs in every which direction like a wolf pack might sleep. The sight warmed him up with the hope that they, along with the unborn son within Cat would grow up like brothers, even if they all weren’t.  
  
Ned then gave his goodbyes to Lya, asking her to tell Benjen: “He’s not allowed to leave Winterfell until I speak with him.”  
  
Lya added softly, “I’ll tell him, Ned…”  
  
Ned nodded and then for the first time in a long while hugged her, to which she responded by holding on even tighter. When they parted the embrace she wiped a few stray tears from her eyes.  
  
Cat was busy giving her own tearful goodbyes to her father and Lysa when he approached her. His goodfather greeted him warmly, seemingly unaware of the situation about him. His goodsister gave him no words, only a withering look, which said everything.   
  
Cat, upon noticing his approach immediately seized up and then properly said, “The next time we see one another, my lord, you shall be able to hold your heir.”  
  
“Aye… I wish you an easy birth and a safe voyage,” he said, and surprisingly she then leaned in and chastely kissed his cheek.  
  
She then said, “I wish you well on your war, my lord.”  
  
And there was nothing left to be said as she turned and headed below deck to rest, leaving Ned with his goodfamily. After they had left the boat, his goodfather pulled him aside and spoke to him in private.  
  
“I have no pretensions to knowing what disagreement sits between my daughter and yourself, but I do wish that with the time you both have apart that whatever it is that troubles you will work itself out.”  
  
Ned thanked his goodfather and then turned his thoughts to the road that lay ahead and the war with the Ironborn.


	46. Oberyn

******OBERYN**  
  
It had been a long time since he had been able to speak so freely with his sister—not since before he had been sent to Lord Yronwood to be fostered when he had been a boy. Speaking with her once again openly and freely in her private chambers, he felt like all the years, the death of Lord Yronwood from his duel, his unofficial exile, her marriage, the abandonment from her husband, the war… everything had not passed and that they were once again children in Sunspear laughing over some prank they had pulled on the ever so serious Doran, much to their mother’s annoyance.  
  
“Seven Hells, what was that man thinking? We’ve brokered a peace on the idea of his son marrying Rhaenys and he goes and delays his wedding and nearly throws his life away on that… Lannister!” spat Elia as she brushed Rhaenys’ hair. Her last stroke was done a bit roughly, causing his niece to whine.  
  
“Oh my little dragon, forgive me…” whispered Elia as she kissed the top of her daughter’s head.  
  
“To be truthful sister, I don’t mind the man.”  
  
Elia looked at him as though he had lost all sense.  
  
“And why is it only now that I consider that a faceless man might have killed you and stolen your face?” retorted Elia.  
  
“Let me explain myself. True he is a brash man, clumsy about his way—but he does what he means to do, and he does it with a passion. All of that I can respect. I may wish it weren’t so blunt a blade, but this seems to be a matter in which he is able to be sharpened if Lords Stark, Arryn, and Tully are any evidence.”  
  
“Sharpened? What would you do?” she asked, now pulling Rhaenys closer to herself.  
  
Oberyn met her eyes and said with purposeful intent, “What I had to, to ensure your safety, sweet sister. If that means making this man a better King because you choose so, then so be it.”  
  
She sighed and then spoke with exasperation, “I would rather you spent your time searching for Varys! I asked for you to come specifically because you have been to the Free Cities recently.”  
  
“You wound me, Elia. And here I thought you missed me.”  
  
Elia looked hurt herself at the suggestion, admitting, “I have… but for Rhaenys’ sake I have to be, practical. And Doran doesn’t know Essos as well as you do.”  
  
“I cannot leave King’s Landing now,” reminded Oberyn  
  
Elia rolled her eyes, “Of course not… but surely you must have contacts abroad.”  
  
He stood up, feeling as though he could not sit for much longer, beginning to pace as he said, “I do, but not all of them are the kind you wish they were.”  
  
She asked pointedly, “Then how can you keep us safe from assassin’s blades?”  
  
He turned and met her probing glance, “While I am with you and Rhaenys—no harm will ever come to you.”  
  
There was a long moment of silence which was eventually broken up when Rhaenys yawned and began to whine.  
  
Elia then picked up Rhaenys in her arms and said, “It’s late… I should be putting her to bed.”  
  
He looked at them both—each quite lovely in the glow of the dim light of the candles. Little Rhaenys had wrapped her arms around Elia’s neck and rested her head upon her shoulder—making Elia look the sight of Mother Rhoyne.   
  
He replied, “Of course… until tomorrow.”  
  
As he was about to leave he heard her call out, “Oberyn”  
  
He turned and asked, “Yes?”  
  
“You forgot your pin…”  
  
With a wicked smile she held out the silver pin made in the shape of an eye. With a groan he took it and left her chambers. The pin was for his newly dubbed office, Lord of Intelligence—so called because Robert hated the sound of “whispers”. He had wanted to rename the position “Lord of Knowledge”…  
  
“You bring me knowledge of what truly is going on in these Kingdoms and beyond, and that’s what your position should be named for—not ruddy whispers and rumors.”  
  
Luckily Oberyn had managed to convince him to change the word to a more refined one, “Knowledge may be sought by anyone… but intelligence takes skill and patience to acquire, and that is also part of my position, is it not?”  
  
The name was only nominally better than the original one proposed, but Oberyn did not mind the changes—anything that disassociated himself with the man who had kidnapped his niece was welcome as far as he was concerned.  
  
Oberyn retired for the night to his chambers, thinking as he did of his young daughters and wondering if he might have them brought to the capital for a time.  
  
 _With Lord Uller’s bastard daughter as their guardian for the journey… she would come if I asked her to do this… I hope…_  
  
What people he had recruited to himself spoke of how the King—before word of the Ironborn taking Lannisport had arrived—had made inquiries to have his own bastard daughter brought to King’s Landing. Mayhaps his daughters might have an unlikely compatriot. And added to them was the Stark bastard he heard was half Dayne that might come with his father every now and then when he would visit the capital. It was odd, but seeing the interest the King and the Bloody Wolf took in their bastards had intrigued him—it was almost Dornish of them, considering everything he had been told of how bastards were treated beyond the Red Mountains. And despite their blunders and lack of refinement, men who treated their bastards well could not be so bad. This, and truly only this, was the reason Oberyn had decided to give either man consideration.  
  
To his surprise he found a gift in his room waiting for his return—a very attractive gift, which came with a barely distinguishable Pentoshi accent.  
  
“Good evening, my Prince…”  
  
“Good evening…” he replied cautiously.  
  
She smiled and approached him, kissing him and beginning the foreplay in which she had been intended to give, “I have been sent to satisfy your… pleasures, so to speak…”  
  
“And who would be so generous to give me such a gift?” he asked, looking over the well-rounded woman as she ran her hand down his abdomen.  
  
“A man who wishes to remain anonymous, my Prince,” replied the girl.  
  
Oberyn did not like anonymous gifts—but he had his dagger hidden on him, and she had very little else beside the translucent silk she wore over her body. Little metal butterflies adorned her dark hair, they might be attached to something troublesome, but he would have plenty of warning if she reached up into her hair to retrieve one. She was a poisoned gift—she had the stench of one—but she was still a well-figured poisoned gift. So he played along with the ruse, urging her to take off her clothes, which she did. He would enjoy this gift, and then—when she thought she had him, he would find out who had given her.  
  
Of the many things Oberyn could pride himself on it was his ability as a lover that he took the most pride in. He managed to distract the little spy long enough with his tongue that she was near to having passed out—the perfect position for the viper to strike. But to his surprise she took out one of the pointed and polished mental bars that held her hair up in its elegant little knot and moved to bring it down upon his upper back. In and instant he had his dagger at her fleshy belly. They remained at a stand still in their respective positions for a while—tension filling the air.  
  
When he had grown bored with their stand-off he said, “You stab me in the back, I’ll hurt for a while but I’ll recover and live… but a dagger right… here—”  
  
She gasped as the dagger’s cold blade ran right along the skin above her belly button.  
  
“—will kill you…” he finished.  
  
She did not move, her eyes focused too much on his dagger. With his other hand he took hold of the thin metal bar with the butterfly on the end and pried it from her hands. After which she tried to back away further into his bed, but he followed her, climbing on top of her, while running his blade smoothly along her skin up from her belly and straight to her neck.  
  
He demanded of her, “Now from whom are you a gift from?”  
  
In an instant all pretense of fear left her face as she smirked and said but one thing, “Squeak, squeak,” before surprising him by taking hold of his wrist and slitting her own throat, bloodying his sheets and ending her own life.  
  
He called the servants to clean up the mess, through on a shirt to replace the ruined one he had received and set out immediately for the White Sword Tower. It was time to take this appointment seriously. He found Oswell Whent packing his belongings into a trunk—it was meagerly fitted out chest seeing as most of what he owned as a whitecloak would have to be left behind in the White Sword Tower and Oswell had long since outgrown or discarded what personal belongings he had brought with him as a young knight. The only bit of armor Oberyn saw that he had packed was his personalized white helmet with the shape of a black Whent bat forged upon it.  
  
“Master Oswell… I have a mission for you.”  
  
Oswell was silent for a moment before replying, “My Prince—”  
  
“I come to you not as a member of the royal family, but as the Lord of Intelligence. I need you to be my eyes and ears in Pentos for me.”  
  
Oswell continued, “I no longer wear a white cloak—”  
  
“And thus are the perfect person to mingle amongst disaffected men and exiles in Pentos. Say that you were wrongfully discharged from your service, and that you wish to seek vengeance. In a moon’s turn you should be in contact with the people who keep sending assassins across the Narrow Sea. From there, I trust your skill with a sword to… take care of those… people,” expounded Oberyn  
  
Oswell sighed and then said, “I have a grand niece to look after. She’s the last of my nephew’s children yet living—”  
  
“She will be properly taken care of as befits the future Lady of Harrenhal. I can assure you of that. And when the time comes arranged for a proper marriage to ensure your family line—if you choose not to take a lover yourself while in Pentos that is,” said Oberyn with a smirk.  
  
“When would you have me leave, my Prince?” asked Oswell.  
  
Oberyn smirked, knowing he had moved his pieces without having to bring out his dragon, saying, “With the high tide.”


	47. Catelyn III

  
**CATELYN**

When she had begun the journey she vowed would never sail by boat across seas again—not if she were this… unwell on a trip. For the majority of the first few days Catelyn had spent most of them in her cabin retching into a bucket that was emptied by the hired wet nurse for the babes—Wylla, might have been her name. Catelyn was grateful for her attentions and promised to pay her double her fee when her task was completed.

After these first few days her stomach seemed to have calmed and the babe within her ceased his vigorous kicking that he had done while first at sea—he would be a strong babe that she felt certain of. Catelyn for her own good decided to take as much bed rest as she could—giving her aching feet and back a much needed break. At least once a day she tried to walk about the deck of the ship and it was then she discovered the true joy of sailing upon the seas—true the ship might rock, but with a good wind at your back, and calm seas, one could feel as though you flew like a bird across the sea. It was soon after her stomach had settled that the three Northern lords who traveled with their party began appearing in her cabin to keep her company every once in a while.

Ethan Glover visited her most frequently, seeming to take a particular special interest in her. It wasn’t until she pressed how he knew so much of her from the little acquaintance they had had that he blushed and admitted to having been a squire to Brandon. In that moment Catelyn stopped… her betrothed, her first kiss as a woman—she had practiced kissing on Petyr along with Lysa as a girl, but Brandon had been the first to kiss her like she were a woman—those heavy handed... meetings by the riverbank in the nearby woods—that never went to completely inappropriate levels, but at the same time was never quite so innocent either.

Her emotions must have been quite obvious on her face for immediately Ethan insisted, “Oh no, my lady, Brandon always had many good things to say about you, but he always said you were quite the… proper lady. He never said anything about you other than that—to that I swear!”

She thanked him for his honesty—though she knew Brandon well enough that Ethan was likely editing his report for her benefit, but she kindly did not inform him that she knew as such, less she be thought rude.

On the fourth visit they had run out of appropriate subjects concerning their pasts to speak on, so Catelyn asked him about his immediate plans for the future, “Why are you returning to the North, Ethan?” She felt comfortable speaking Ethan’s name after all they had spoken on nearly all matters concerning his father, uncle, cousins, and his life growing up in Deepwood Motte and the surrounding Wolfswood.

Ethan was glad to explain her husband’s orders to him, as he put it, “To get more men. After our campaign through the Stormlands, Ned lost a good bit of men to that blasted Tarly. I’m to rally more of the Wolfswood Keeps and Mountain Clans—who each sent a scant few at the beginning of the war. I’m also to take a wife—Jonelle Cerwyn, and then join some Cerwyn troops to my own and take my force and march them south to meet up with the hosts Willam and Howland are raising. Then after we meet at Moat Cailin, we’ll make for Seaguard so we can make sail for the Iron Islands.”

“Do they truly expect to be through the Westerlands _that_ quickly?” asked Catelyn

Ethan smiled and shook his head, saying, “There won’t be anything quick about it, my lady. By the time I get to Deepwood Motte and send all the ravens out to the Wolfswood Keeps, then make my trip up into then down out of the mountains, I’d say that a good three moons will have come and gone before I’m marching into Castle Cerwyn for my marriage.”

“Why not send a raven from White Harbor to Deepwood Motte and all the clans, so that they all could meet you at Winterfell?” asked Catelyn, trying to think of a more practical way of gathering bannermen than this disorganized mess sounded.

“That would only gather the Wolfswood Keeps to Winterfell and put much strain on its resources, my lady, while I trekked through the mountains speaking with each clan chieftain where ever they might be,” explained Ethan simply.

“I did not consider all that. But do not the clans keep ravens?” asked Catelyn

He countered, saying, “No. While they have adopted farming to some degree, they still travel far from their farms to tend to their goats and sheep, and to keep the wolves away from them. They seem to be stubbornly convinced that staying in one place for very long is the easiest recipe for a wolf to attack their flocks. We Glovers and the Starks have tried to convince them for centuries that the opposite is true, but then the clans have climber’s blood in ‘em—if they aren’t scaling up dangerous rock faces, they don’t know what to do with themselves.”

Catelyn found all of this talk of Mountain Clans to be extremely fascinating—like something out of a song in which the peaceful virtues of a shepherd’s life amongst the majestic beauty of jagged cliffs and mountains. It reminded her of a song she had heard as a child called _The Princess Shepherdess_.

There once had been an Andal king who was overthrown by his own men leaving behind naught but his only daughter to claim his crown. In all the confusion of his death and the seizure of the throne, his young daughter had escaped certain death and she was hidden amongst the mountain people of First Men’s blood. Slowly over the course of many years she came to charm the villagers into setting aside their weirwood, believing in the Seven, and putting aside of their immodest ways, through not but her good heart and plucky courage. The only hold-out being an old grandfather-like man and his family—and old curmudgeon who was set in his ways, but even he, eventually, came to be charmed by the little princess—though the wicked old woman who was his wife had not. Then again the wicked old wife had not been his true wife, but in all truth her own twin sister in disguise who had killed he twin and taken her spot for a chance at a husband with a larger flock than hers had—so in the the end the wicked old woman hadn’t mattered.

In some ways, Catelyn imagined herself to be like that unnamed Andal Princess—exiled into the North amongst First Men… but she felt that despite everything, she would also resemble the Princess in her ability to win people to her side—if she just was charming enough—never openly encouraging wrong behavior and openly rewarding those who acted in the manner which she agreed was right.

It was of course, silly childish nonsense—the kind Catelyn had thought she had put away when mother had passed. In truth she knew it took more than charm and a good heart to convince someone of their errors, but oh how she wished it could be that simple—then she might have convinced her husband to send his bastard away to be fostered elsewhere, instead of being forced to travel with him, seeing her husband’s face in miniature... It worried her:

_What if my children do not resemble their father so much as his bastard does?_

Each night she fretted over this when her goodsister came to her cabin, bringing the ward and the bastard with her in each arm. Truly Catelyn did not mind the war—Den was his name… she must remind herself that that was his name. The first time her goodsister had brought both babes, Catelyn had nearly thrown her out of her cabin. But if there was one thing her goodsister was, it was persistent.

“You’re going to have to get used to him sometime,” she had pronounced much to Catelyn’s horror. She then continued saying, “You’ll be seeing his face everyday for at least the next sixteen years, so you might as well accept him now.”

She had then attempted to get Catelyn to hold the boy—which she plaintively refused to do so.

“You need to get rid of that notion,” scolded her goodsister, who then added, “that and ignoring Ned will only bring you trouble in Winterfell.”

Her she-wolf goodsister then set herself upon the self-appointed task of educating her about Winterfell. Of this, Catelyn found some grudging interest upon her goodsister’s efforts—for although Brandon had told her much of the North and of Barrowton where he had been fostered, his tales of Winterfell always felt like speaking with the mind of a child who had once visited the castle but not given it much thought beyond that. Lyanna however had grown up solely in Winterfell and spoke of it as though the stones themselves lived and breathed as much as any man might. She spoke of secret passageways that she had played in with her little brother Benjen, and then used to play rather horrible but quite funny pranks upon the staff, their father, or their visiting elder brothers.

From this point Lyanna typically segued into speaking about Catelyn’s lord husband, extolling his virtues and overlooking some of his flaws like any good younger sister would. It was during these conversations that Catelyn found for herself the myth of the “Bloody Wolf” to be just that—though Lyanna looked horrified to hear of the nickname being applied to “sweet Ned,” as she referred to him.

Most often Catelyn would find some excuse to turn the subject of the conversation away from her lord husband and back to Winterfell, and it was speaking on Winterfell that Catelyn felt she grew to wonder just why as a castle it should allow those less than worthy of the Stark name to be raised within its walls.

“It’s an old tradition that goes back to the time when Starks were Kings in their own right,” explained Lyanna.

As she told the tale, Catelyn thought of it in her head. Once the Stark line it seem came down to the only living member being the bastard son of a Stark daughter and most shockingly of all—a wildling who had kidnapped and raped her, leaving her with child before returning North of the Wall.

Lyanna added further to this story, saying with much mummer's flair, “The King could have thrown out his daughter, at that time he had a son to carry on his name… but instead he took the babe in as his own grandchild, gave him his name, and raised him in Winterfell as any Stark. Later the babe’s father would grow to become a King-Beyond-the-Wall and bring a force of wildlings to the Wall to do battle—during which both the King and his son perished—leaving naught but his daughter’s son to do battle with the Wildling King—which he did, slaying him and bringing his mother his head. Once she saw his face she screamed a terrible scream. They say she went mad upon sight of her tormentor’s head returned and she killed herself that night.”

"Does every Northern story end in bloodshed?” asked Catelyn when the tale had been told, thinking back to the few Brandon had told her when they had been in the mood to swap stories early on in their betrothal more than they had been eager to swap spit.

“Only the better ones,” admitted her goodsister, and Catelyn rolled her eyes at the admission.

To hear that the Starks had honored the old King’s actions regarding his own bastard grandson with all their future sons born on the wrong sheets, Catelyn could grudgingly accept, even see some semblance of nobility of action in it—that they were descended from that same legitimized man only made her worry about the fate of her own son in comparison to her husband’s bastard, grow.

One evening, Catelyn asked her goodsister an outright question—Lyanna she noticed seemed to favor these the most when speaking with Catelyn, so she thought it only right to ask the same of her.

“Why do you keep coming each night to my cabin? I mean, no offense, but you must eventually grow tired of my company, do you not?” asked Catelyn

Lyanna in that moment spoke quite softly, but Catelyn could tell also quite earnestly, “I always wished for a sister. I love each of my brothers—well loved and love—but I always wanted a sister… in addition to them of course.”

That night when Catelyn had retired to go to sleep, Catelyn wondered at just how lucky she had been to have had a brother and a sister each, though she wondered if Edmure would have desired a second brother instead of two older sisters.


	48. Jaime IV

**JAIME**  
  
The journey along the Goldroad was quick and easy through the Crownlands and the Reach. As the army passed Jaime saw many smallfolk come out to see the King as they passed. Doing so helped to ease Jaime’s mind and worry about Tyrion's and Cersei’s fates as well as his own guilt at what his father had said after he had told him that he would not fight for him.  
  
His father had said, _“Then all Lannisters are dead to me and not worth the trouble I’ve taken over the years to fix my father’s mistakes. Go and wear your whitecloak and stand guard over your King if you value you it over your family so much.”  
_  
 _Jaime pleaded with his father to consider fighting himself, or even asking for mercy to take the black, but instead his father had met his eye and said, “I want you to live the rest of your life knowing that you could have changed everything for our house, if you had only made a different choice. May you be blessed with a long life to see its complete collapse because of your choice—I on the other hand, have little desire to remain to watch the fate you’ve doomed our family to, come to pass!”_  
  
“Something troubling you, Ser Jaime?” asked the Bloody Wolf, who brought him back to the present with his gruffly asked question. He was once again upon the Goldroad heading up into the foothills of the Western Mountains.  
  
“No… not anymore,” He said, trying to convince himself as much as the Bloody Wolf. What was done was done, his father’s life was spent the way he had decided to end it, and there was nothing else to do. And yet while he knew this, he could not shake his father’s words to him… they clung to him like a desperate lover.  
  
“It doesn’t get any easier… and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to themselves. You think on it less as the days go by, but it never does go away,” the Bloody Wolf added, speaking without any emotions—or so it seemed to Jaime.  
  
Jaime looked with some confusion at the Northern lord, “What never goes away?”  
  
“Grief, Ser Jaime. Grief never leaves us,” and with that said the Bloody Wolf spurred his horse on, leaving Jaime to think on his words.  
  
They arrived at Deep Den that evening, the easternmost house seat that was sworn to House Lannister along the Goldroad. Deep Den was a castle at the beginning of a long mountain pass through which the Goldroad passed on to . It was built into the side of the mountain alongside a waterfall that began the Silver River which traveled south to Silver Hill, Goldengrove, and later Highgarden when it joined the Mander. Deep Den was an impressive sight to behold, but what caught Jaime’s eye upon their arrival was the large tent city which had popped up. It appeared not only to be made of the gathering forces of Lord Lewys Lydden’s white badger banner, but there were also what seemed to be women and children amongst the tents. When Lord Lewys—a prematurely bald man with a grim face greeted them, he gave fealty to the King and then explained the situation of the Westerlands as last he heard. There was little coastline that had not been reeved by the Ironborn. Several castles including the Crag, Banefort, Feastfires, and Crakehall had all been taken. Fair Island on Faircastle was said to have been outright annexed and declared to be part of the Kingdom of the Isles as the Ironborn were calling their Kingdom. Lannisport went back and forth between being in control of the Lannisters or the Ironborn—depending upon which day it was.  
  
“From what we’ve been able to gather from the people fleeing the city, the Ironborn somehow sneaked into the City Watch’s headquarters and slaughtered a good lot of them that weren’t on patrol in their sleep. They didn’t get them all, but the Ironborn took out enough of the leadership to cause confusion amongst the City Watch to cause panic and chaos so they could reeve most of the city initially.”  
  
Jaime was stunned, the finest force in Westeros—the Lannisport City Watch—well known for being superior far to the goldcloaks of King’s Landing, had been drastically reduced in numbers in their sleep of all times. Were his father alive—but he wasn’t.  
  
Lord Lewys and his sworn men joined their procession and the continued up through the mountain pass. In these Spring days, the mountains of the West still held some snow at the top, and as such the danger in passing through the Goldroad was tremendous as it became ever colder—several men, not having prepared for such weather grew sick—some from the more southerly reaches of their army outright dying. While the trek was not too costly, at the same time it did much damage to the morale of those men who trudged through the snows. One cold reminder of the dangers of this pass in Spring came when they came across the remnants of an avalanche which was in the process of beginning to melt—out of which frozen limbs and faces of no-doubt fleeing refugees from Lannisport had met their frozen fate.  
  
Jaime was quite glad to put the mountain pass behind them when at last they began to come down out of the mountains. But to the sights which Jaime saw, he was not so sure he was so glad. As they came to the lower foothills, they came across many burnt out keeps and scorched land. From what it seemed, the Ironborn had meant to take whatever they could and leave nothing behind for those who would come after.  
  
The sights angered Jaime.   
  
_This is what happens when father foolishly tries to win a crown for Cersei. He’ll be remembered for long to come as a worse lord than grandfather for this mistake. And let them write that this was his true legacy—not his position as Hand, not his destruction of Houses Reyne Tarbeck… no leaving his lands defenseless while he sought a position higher than he should—that is his true legacy, reaching far beyond his station that he could not protect what he had._  
  
The Goldroad became increasingly difficult to traverse, as it seemed the Ironborn had taken the forethought to damage the road enough to make journeying on it near impossible. Eventually they decided that it would be easier to simply travel alongside the road than to travel on it, and so they did, eventually having to abandon following the road altogether less they be forced to walk through forests. They decided to go around the forest to a more southeasterly route which would take them by Clegane’s Keep, the seat of the recently deceased Gregor Clegane.  
  
Clegane’s Keep was a lonely keep amongst a small set of hills overlooking a valley which it alone was responsible for looking after. And according to their outriders that was where the Ironborn were waiting for them, a sizable number encamped and having built crude positions of defense around the keep. The battle though not unexpected, was before them, and the Bloody Wolf looked to to supply a solution.  
  
“In truth they’re a small force. We far out number them, but with the way they have positioned themselves, sending anyone into the valley would be a death trap,” commented the Bloody Wolf.  
  
“I can bloody well see that, Ned!” blustered the King slamming his fist onto the table, jostling the pieces that had been laid out upon a piece of parchment upon which a crude map had been drawn by Jaime for the purposes of their war games. But it was here that Jaime saw the true brilliance of the Northern lord at work.  
  
The Bloody Wolf thought for a moment before rearranging the pieces and speaking.  
  
“We have already won this battle by numbers alone. The question is how many men do we want to throw away winning it?”  
  
“As few as possible—we don’t need another loss in morale after that mountain pass…” pleaded Lord Arryn.  
  
“I agree. Land wise they have the advantage in taking the best terrain and embanking it. We just have to turn their advantage into a failure. And luckily that is achievable as they have not seen the entirety of our force yet.”  
  
“You’re not suggesting that we—” began Lord Arryn.  
  
“Of course I’m suggesting it! I would be a fool not to do so. From what our riders tell us their position is formidable, but not completely defensible… they have their backs to the forest with no position of defense within there to guard their rear," explained the Bloody Wolf.  
  
“They’re counting on the trees being enough of a deterrent to march an army through!” realized the King  
  
“Exactly,” concurred the Bloody Wolf.  
  
“They would be deterrents if we were Ironborn,” japed Lord Arryn.   
  
The King gave a hearty laugh, adding, “If it isn’t being made into a boat, an Ironborn doesn’t know what to do with a tree besides piss on it.”  
  
After the King had finished laughing at his own jape, the Bloody Wolf continued, while pointing to the pieces he had moved across the map saying, “I’d suggest sending a group of archers into the woods and have them hide amongst the trees, along with a small portion of our force, while bringing the rest of our encampment up here and making a big show of building a camp and the beginnings of an embankment.”  
  
“So while the Ironborn are thinking we’re going to try and draw them into the valley…” began Lord Arryn.  
  
The Bloody Wolf nodded and said, “They’ll have whatever little guard they have eased to their rear, allowing whatever forces we send into the forest to come sweeping through and take the Ironborn by surprise there, then the force after hitting them will retreat, drawing a good number of them into the forest where the archers will finish off those that follow—meanwhile our main force will then charge the valley and take the fortifications. The valley won’t be so much of a bloodbath with a good part of what Ironborn are there either killed or off chasing our forces in the woods. It will still be rather deadly though. I would not suggest leading the attack through the valley yourself, your grace.”  
  
The King scoffed and said, “You're mad Ned—of course I’ll lead the men through the valley!”  
  
“Your grace—” began Lord Arryn.  
  
“Should you fall—” began the Bloody Wolf.  
  
“Then Stannis is King and he marries your sister Ned and fathers a son to marry little Rhaenys. Damn it, this was the whole point of my appointing you to this position in the first place. You plan the battles and see to the supplies and what not, I lead the men in battle,” grumbled the King.  
  
And from this point none of his lords could budge him to move, and so it would be left to Jaime, Ser Mark, and Ser Lyn to ensure his safety across that valley.   
  
What surprised Jaime when the fighting came was just how well everything worked to the Bloody Wolf’s plans—even going slightly better than expected as more Ironborn than they had expected to peel off chaced their small force led by Lord Arryn into the woods to be slaughtered in a storm of arrows, leaving not but a measly force at the embankments which were easily swept away and then dealt with what deserters there were fleeing from the forest.  
  
In the end the Bloody Wolf deserved his reputation as there was no Ironborn left alive from this small contingent, while the losses to their own forces were miniscule at best—mostly from charging across the valley. It was a battle well worth adding to the Bloody Wolf’s record, though it was a minor one at best.  
  
When the fighting had finished the inhabitants of the Keep came out to view the carnage, amongst them was a boy who appeared to be of either twelve or eleven namedays, wearing a tattered surcoat far too large for him with the symbol of House Clegane upon it over what appeared to be ragged and ruined clothing. His face was half burnt on his left side—though his hair was grown long and brushed to cover it as much as its thin oily texture could, making him instantly recognizeable to Jaime as Gregor Clegane’s younger brother who supposedly was so clumsy he had “tripped” into a hearth as his father had explained it. The boy knelt before the King and introduced himself as Sandor Clegane when he had been given permission to speak.  
  
“Are you of close relation to a Gregor Clegane?” asked the King darkly.  
  
“While my father did sire him, and my mother did birth him, he was no brother of mine.”  
  
The King retorted with, “Hm. Dark words to come from such a young mouth as yours, especially considering his death.”  
  
At this news Sandor’s brown eyes went wide and then they immediately closed with a seeming look of relief, before opening them again to meet the King’s blue eyes saying “I am glad to hear of it… my brother was… a monster.”  
  
“He was indeed,” agreed the King, who then made motion for the the army to begin its procession on away from the Keep.  
  
“My king!” called out Sandor as the group began to leave.  
  
“What is it boy?” asked the King, obviously tired of speaking.  
  
“I would like to join you on your travels,” offered the lad.  
  
“I’ve got no time for a boy who can barely hold a sword in his hand in my army.”  
  
“I—I could squire for one of your lords,” suggested the boy, this time a little more obviously distressed.  
  
“Why are you so intent on coming, lad?” asked Jaime, speaking for the first time the entire conversation.  
  
The boy was silent for a long moment before finally saying, with some difficulty, “When the Ironborn came… they took my sister, and made me a serving boy… your grace. I would like to kill as many as I can and get her back if she still lives.”  
  
“Oh I bet she still lives boy, but I’m not sure you’d like the state of her once you’ve found her,” warned the King, who then thought for a moment before turning to the Bloody Wolf to ask, “Can you find use of him, Ned?”  
  
“I’m sure I can find something for him to earn the food he’ll eat, and mayhaps one of my swordsmen can train him if they are so inclined” replied the Bloody Wolf.  
  
After nodding in agreement, the King turned to the lad.  
  
“That’s my offer, boy, do you accept or are we bloody well wasting our time tarrying here?” asked the King with an obvious anxiousness to him.  
  
Sandor Clegane accepted and was quickly added to Lord Stark’s party.  
  
“You seem to have a knack for collecting broken and abandoned things, Ned,” commented the King as they road on towards Lannisport.  
  
“They are the ones who need our help the most, your grace,” replied the Bloody Wolf thoughtfully.  
  
“Of course, of course,” dismissed the King, and they road on.  
  
It was not but a day’s ride to Lannisport, and they could see the walled city by the coast long before they actually reached it. They came to the great city of the West expecting a battle, but to their surprise had found that Uncle Tygett had recently repulsed the most recent wave of Ironborn who’d come—at peril of his own life it seemed. His brave uncle—one of the most skilled swords of the West—was dead… and now all the men of his father’s generation were dead. Jaime began to think that a curse might have descended upon their house, but then dismissed the notion as war and rebellion were times when anyone could die… easily explained. And yet the notion still stuck in the back of his mind as he thought of the long string of families which had possession of Harrenhal.  
  
Casterly Rock was opened to the King, and the army secured the nearly empty city from whenever the next wave of Ironborn was due to come to try and take it once again. The King was bid welcome by all the family and shown to his chambers. After which, Jaime was given leave to speak with his family, if he so wished.   
  
Jaime at long last was reunited with his brother and sister—to his great relief to see both still living and safe.  
  
It would have been all for naught if they had died…  
  
Tyrion, ever the eager and curious little boy of nine namedays asked all sorts of questions about the King, about King’s Landing, being a Kingsguard, the Rebellion—everything was of interest to his little brother. And Jaime was happy to oblige him with his answers.  
  
His meeting with Cersei was much more intimate and private, opened with a passionate kiss like they had not had since he had joined the Kingsguard.  
  
“And so you’ve brought my husband to be with you,” said Cersei after breaking off the kiss, and Jaime felt as though he had been punched in the gut.   
  
_Has she no concern for me?_   
  
And then he was reminded instantly of the betrothal he had arranged when he thought his family in danger of losing the seat of the Westerlands.   
  
No… he couldn’t tell her that now… not just yet… but he would have to dislodge that notion of her being Queen.  
  
“I’m sorry, Cersei,” he began.  
  
“Sorry for what?” she asked, her green eyes narrowing.  
  
He was gentle with how he told her, saying, “Lyanna Stark was found… and she’s agreed to marry the King in a year’s time.”  
  
Cersei was silent for a moment, staring at Jaime in obvious disbelief, before shaking her head and saying, “She may die, the King may die, I may die… or the King’s horse may talk,” she mumbled with half a smirk, referencing an old jape they had once heard their Uncle Gerion tell them. It was about a condemned man sentenced to death buying a year’s delay on his execution by pledging to teach the King’s favorite horse to talk, which if he accomplished would pardon him of all his crimes. Jaime smiled at the memory, happy to have a fond memory for once of his kin to reflect on. It hadn’t been one of Uncle Gerion’s best japes, but its point was if anything apropriate.  
  
Jaime smirked, agreeing, “Aye, or the horse may talk.”  
  
At this, Cersei grinned wickedly, and Jaime wondered if she had been intending some other kind of meaning behind those words that he had failed to pick up. But he had little time to ponder this as she said, “Aunt Genna wishes to see you… it’s about father’s arrest.”  
  
Jaime nodded saying that he would meet with their Aunt immediately—knowing she held little patience once she put her mind to something.  
  
Aunt Genna was a large woman—well figured and quite busty. She decked herself out in fashionable fur and gaudy jewelry of the Lannister colors, despite being married to a Frey—including a set of fancy gold rings upon her fat fingers—and painted her face so that the layer was thick and fully colored. She was also very domineering and opinionated, believing that whatever thoughts she held were worth thrice of any other’s. After their mother’s death Aunt Genna had taken a maternal interest in looking after Cersei, Tyrion and himself. Beyond Uncle Gerion and himself, she was the only one to recognize Tyrion’s increasingly sharp intellect and was supportive of its development in her own manner, as long as he didn’t attempt to contradict her. Truly it was easier to let his Aunt have her way instead of arguing with her.  
  
“Is that any way to greet your poor old Aunt, my dear dear Jaime?” asked Aunt Genna, handkerchief in hand as she dabbed her eyes when he came to see her. He had simply given a polite bow upon entering the Lord’s solar, which she had already occupied and turned into her own Lioness’ Den. Like Cersei and Tyrion, she was dressed in black for mourning the deaths of Kevan, Gerion, and now Tygett. He would have to be the one to inform her of their uncle’s death.  
  
Jaime obliged her by kneeling—knowing it would flatter her vanity—to kiss her hand, and then rising to kiss each cheek—feeling some of her face paint smeared onto his face, which his aunt was eager to dab away with her own handkerchief. As she insisited upon doing this, she began immediately to speak.  
  
“Now about your father—I admit that what he planned was quite wrong of him, but in all actuality, he did nothing wrong. I cannot see why the King insisted on imprisoning him for the actions of other people,” commented his aunt as she dabbed away the last of her face pain from his mouth and cheeks.  
  
“Actions, which he admitted to ordering them to commit,” reminded Jaime.  
  
“That could hardly be proven,” his Aunt replied dismissively.  
  
Jaime did not wish to continue on, but he knew it was a hurdle he had to overcome, so he swallowed and then said quite clearly, “He was found guilty.”  
  
“By what law?” asked his Aunt, her maternal tone now seeming to drop from her voice.  
  
“He asked for a Trial by Combat, but refused to name a champion for himself and could find no one to take up the sword for him.”  
  
“Why did you not fight for him?!” exclaimed Aunt Genna in disbelief.  
  
Jaime explained, “The King was his own champion. I could not take sword against him, and father would have no other man as his champion, and refused to fight himself.”  
  
“ _Would_ _not_ , you mean! You would not take up your sword in defense of your own father!” roared his aunt  
  
Jaime countered, “No, because I know my father well enough that I know that he did order those men to kill Lyanna Stark. That he sent the fleet and army to take Dragonstone is apparent enough. He tried to put a crown upon Cersei's head and look at how his greed has left the Westerlands!”  
  
“Pish posh—only heresay and a crime of war! If every man was held accountable for the crimes he commits during war, only we women would be left alive to rule—which would not be so bad a turn of affairs, now that I think on it, but that’s beside the point. Now if you excuse me nephew, I must speak to the King about releasing your father. You may not have spoken up for your father, but I most certainly will. He was the only one to speak up for me when I was set to be married to my husband, and now I’ll more than return the favor!”  
  
“He’s dead!” shouted Jaime.  
  
His Aunt stared at him for the longest time, saying nothing, merely blinking her small green eyes in shock several times before finally uttering quite quietly, “Excuse me?”  
  
“I told you, he was found guilty and then he was beheaded for—” Jaime never had an opportunity to finish what he had to say as he was promptly smacked rather forcefully across the face.  
  
“Tygett was a fool to abandon Tywin like that! And you’re an even greater one and a blood traitor besides to have turned on your own father! You should be ashamed to call yourself a Lannister!” bellowed his Aunt.  
  
Jaime left her to her yelling and fuming rage, knowing there would be no arguing with her. He would return to the King and make sure this night he would sleep safe—despite guest rite having been invoked. With Aunt Genna this upset Jaime wouldn’t have been surprised to see her attempt something rather foolish and stupid like attacking the King.  
  
Since Uncle Tygett was dead he would be damned to let her remain in Tyrion’s life, filling his head with hateful prideful notions. No it was time to apply to his mother’s brother, his Uncle Stafford Lannister. Jaime would have to recommend him to be regent of the Westerlands in Uncle Tygett’s stead to the King. The children of Tytos were at an end of having power in the West.  
  
 _May his grandchildren have better luck…_


	49. Lyanna V

**LYANNA**

 

Lyanna had only been to White Harbor once before in her life—when Rhaegar had convinced her to runaway the immediate place he brought her to was White Harbor to a ship he had waiting to whisk them away to the port of Starfall. At the time she had not thought to look and appreciate the city until it was fading from sight. She had been such a fool in her emotions—giving them too easily to a man she had only met once at a tourney, and imagined too many feelings in the words he’d written to her. She had blinded herself to the likelihood that she’d never see the North again, if Rhaegar’s plan had worked. But here she was having returned to it, thank the gods. The only thing Lyanna recalled of White Harbor from her first visit was that the entire city was built of white stone—which in the moonlight she had seen it in prior had made it seem to glow. But now, in the milky-white sunlight White Harbor was practically blinding. After King’s Landing White Harbor definitely seemed to be a smaller city, but still relatively sizable nonetheless.

 

Upon their departure from the boat Lyanna, Catelyn, Ethan, Howland, and Willam were greeted by the Lord of White Harbor himself, Lord Wyman Manderly. He was a grossly obese man who was about the age her father had been. His belly was massive and his fingers were the size of sausages. He had a huge laugh which immediately endeared him to Lyanna. Her goodsister was gracious enough, though she carried herself with haughty Southron airs.

 

They were received well at the Merman’s Court, feasted to a selection of foods such has honeyed chicken, smoked ham, buttered lemongrass, and . It was a lavish display of the hospitality of White Harbor that was being laid before all of them. Lyanna could see that her goodsister was not only quite surprised by such a welcoming but also as pleased as a cat that had discovered cream. The feast quenched their longing for a decently cooked meal that they had missed while aboard ship. All through the meal hour, Lord Manderly outdid himself for her goodsister, flattering her Southron sensibilities by speaking of the silversmith jewelry that was to be found in White Harbor. Though to Lyanna’s surprise her goodsister did not insist before leaving the city to visit these silversmiths, though she managed to marvel at Leona Manderly’s own rather gaudy display of silver chain weaves in her hair and necklaces and bracelets galore. Later as they rode towards Winterfell in the ancient wheelhouse—that barely got any use since the days of the five she-wolves—had been sent to White Harbor from Winterfell, Catelyn admitted she had little taste for jewelry.

 

“My sister Lysa was always the one to deck herself out with fine things… to be honest, I never saw much use in them.”

 

Although the ride in the wheelhouse was bumpy, it allowed Lyanna to have both Jon and Den with her as often as she liked. Her goodsister had given up protesting Jon’s presence, which Lyanna took to being a good sign—though Lyanna didn’t like the way she sometimes eyed them both up when Lyanna was trying to calm him in one of his fussy moods. She did however seemed to be a bit more taken by Den, so that when Lyanna found her hands full with Jon, her goodsister took Den and was surprisingly good with calming him down.

 

When she asked how she had managed to become so good with calming a babe, her goodsister replied, “My mother died when I was twelve namedays old. Someone had to raise Lysa and my brother.”

 

It was then they began to speak of her goodsister’s growing up, and as Lyanna began to listen to how she had forced herself to grow up when her mother died, Lyanna wondered if she should have done as much for Benjen. He had barely been any older than her goodsister’s younger brother when their mother had died. And by that point Brandon was being fostered in Barrowton and Ned at the Eyrie. She was all Benjen had beyond Father for most of his life…

 

_No wonder he’ll do anything I ask of him…_

 

This sudden realization made Lyanna realize just how Ben had managed to blame himself for what was not his fault. He would do anything for her, he always had and what had she given him in return? Sword fighting, time as a playmate, and as much love as a sister could muster for a sometimes irritating little brother—but hearing her goodsister speak about her relationship with her younger brother, made Lyanna wonder if she shouldn’t have tried to give him more than she had.

 

It was slightly over a week until they saw the tops of the towers that boasted of Winterfell being in the distance. And they were received quite well by Benjen as its current Stark in residence. Lyanna cared not for propriety, rushing to and hugging her little brother tightly before he could have the opportunity to greet their goodsister as Lady of Winterfell. She was surprised when she did, for he had grown quite a bit in the past year she had been gone. He no longer was shorter than her, but now was at least of equal height, if not ever so slightly taller. But then again both Brandon and Ned had shot up like weeds at thirteen namedays as well. Lyanna made the introduction of Cat to Benjen and with as much solemnity as he could muster, Benjen welcomed their goodsister to her new home. After the introductions had been made the wetnurse was instructed by Benjen, who had been informed by a raven from Ned of the two babes’ arrival, that the nursery was prepared and that she should take the babes there, to which Wylla happily obliged.

 

Lyanna wanted to then take Benjen and run off to speak with him, but instead he made it a point to escort their goodsister to her chambers so that she might be able to rest. After this task was complete other excuses were to be found to delay their being able to speak in private with one another, Benjen had to go to their brother’s solar as he called it, dinner had to be seen to, ledgers scrutinized. It was enough for Lyanna to want to drag him away and say that the steward should be able to handle all of that—but Benjen never gave her the opportunity to do so—and she noticed that like Ned had been unable to at first he couldn’t meet her eyes.

_Don’t tell me I’ve lost all my brothers…_

 

After what was the most awkward meal she had ever experienced, with Benjen spending most of the dinner conversation speaking to their goodsister—though never completely ignoring Lyanna—Lyanna felt even more urgency to speak with her little brother. However Catelyn asked her assistance in finding her chambers again, and so Lyanna was obliged to escort her goodsister to the compartments that had originally been her mother’s. They had likely belonged to every Lady of Winterfell since the Great Keep’s construction, but Lyanna couldn’t help but consider them to be mother’s compartments. Entering them again awoke distant memories that she had thought long since forgotten, of her four nameday old self squirming herself in the bed besides her mother for comfort, her mother brushing her hair, or weaving a wreath of pretty flowers into it. It was enough to make leaving the chambers very desirable to Lyanna, which she thankfully was permitted when Lyra, a newly hired servant from Barrowton, arrived to help her goodsister undress.

 

Upon her release, Lyanna brought her mind back to her task at hand and set out to find her growing pup of a brother. Luckily she found Benjen where she always knew she could find him, up in the branches of a godswood tree. He was leaning agains the base of a branch where it connected with the trunk, one leg stretched out on the branch, the other dangling down and swinging lazily near her reach. Like she always did, Lyanna grabbed his leg—not too hard that he would fall, but hard enough for him to know that she had come. It was then she saw him look down for the first time and he gave her his boyish smile. It was only then that she realized looking up at him that in the year that she had left he had gone from being a boy to nearly a man—sure she had noticed his growth in heigh before. But now she noticed that he had grown become quite lanky, his face stretching out into the typical longness known to Starks, losing much of the roundness he’d had but a year ago. She’d almost missed seeing her baby brother grow up… gods what had she been thinking running away?

 

But in the moment she had taken to realize this, Benjen’s own smile faded into a look of worry.and a sort of silent melancholy she was used to seeing on Ned’s face when pressed about mother appeared on Benjen’s. She hated that face, but she would not let it deter her from climbing. With some difficulty she eventually reached a branch near level with Benjen that was sturdy enough to hold her—now only the tree trunk stood between them.

 

“You look more like Ned when you frown,” she said to break the ice wall between them.

 

He was silent for a moment before replying, “Hmph. Maybe if I were more like him than that, father and Brandon would be alive…”

 

“Ben—” she began.

 

He interrupted her, “It’s true, Lya. I could have explained everything to Father and Brandon—about how you and the Prince were in love with each other, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, the letters I sneaked into the castle for you—everything! But instead I panicked—too scared of what Father would do when he heard that I sneaked the Prince in through the crypts and so I said I’d seen you being kidnapped. And because I lied Brandon rode south, and Father after him. It’s my entire fault!”

 

She stated simply, “It’s more my fault than it is yours.”

 

He groaned in response.

 

She became insistent at this, “No, it’s true. I thought that the Prince loved me… he did everything he could to convince me that he did… but he didn’t. Not really. I was just part of some plot of his to get a third child… a Visenya for his Rhaenys and Aegon. I thought he was madly in love with me—but truly he was simply just mad. And because I was too blind to tell the difference Father and Brandon are dead...”

 

Benjen was silent, and Lyanna could only guess what was going through his mind, but she had a good idea nonetheless.

 

She continued, “And don’t start blaming yourself for my lack of judgment! I’m older than you by nearly three namedays.”

 

“Older does not always mean wiser,” answered Benjen.

 

She shifted her weight on the branch, the branch beginning to irritate her sitting. She then continued, “And don’t think running away to the Wall is going to make all this go away, because it won’t Ben. I tried thinking that way… and it doesn’t solve anything.”

 

He answered, “All crimes are forgiven at the Wall.”

 

She wanted to shake him, but he was just out of her reach, “Gods, if I could reach you, I’d smack you. You have done nothing wrong! You thought you were helping your foolish sister—that’s no crime.”

 

He countered weakly with, “Lying is though.”

 

She rounded, “If all liars went to the Wall, they’d have to build more than nineteen castles to hold them all. There’d be no one left for the Night’s Watch to protect the realm for!”

 

“Father never lied.”

 

She had to contradict Ben here, “How do you know that? Were you with him every day of his life?”

 

Benjen then offered, “Ned has never lied to us…”

 

“Aye… but he’s the only one,” she replied, and a silence fell over them for a moment.

 

Benjen, to her surprise continued, saying, “There’s honor in joining the Night’s Watch.”

 

She had to admit that, wasn’t that what Father had always told them? So she agreed “Aye, but if you go, go for that reason alone. But talking about this now is pointless.”

 

“Why?” he asked.

 

Hearing much agitation in her voice, she replied, “You just _can’t_ go to the Night’s Watch Ben… you’re too young.”

 

He refuted her, saying, “There’s no requisite age, Lya. The Night’s Watch once had a boy who had only seen ten namedays voted Lord Commander.”

 

She laughed, of course he would know that. And then asked, “And how long did he last as Lord Commander before someone killed him?”

 

He gave a little laugh before replying, “Sixty more namedays.”

 

_A well-liked boy of ten namedays, it seems._

 

Benjen then added “He was a Stark as well.”

 

_Well that would explain it._

 

“Do you truly want to go to the Wall, Ben?” asked Lyanna

 

He gave a long pause before he answered quite honestly, “I… I know not.”

 

She saw her chance to keep him here, her last chance, and so she begged, “Stay awhile… please… at least until your sixteenth nameday.”

 

There was a long silence which followed which allowed her time to doubt herself. It struck her as odd she hadn’t once mentioned Ned’s declaration that she had promised to tell Ben. But in the instant she thought of it, Lyanna realized she didn’t want to mention that Ned had told her to tell him he wasn’t allowed to leave until he returned. On a somewhat selfish note she realized that she wanted Ben to stay for her, not because Ned had commanded it, though if she failed to appeal to him for herself, she would have to on Ned’s behalf.

 

_Please…Ben…stay for me._

 

“I’ll stay… for now… then, only the gods know,” admitted Benjen.


	50. Arthur V

**ARTHUR**

 

There was very little to do in Lannisport. Most of its inhabitants had fled the city, and the few that had remained were mostly those who had managed to remain hidden. Surprisingly enough of the whores and a few merchants had managed to be amongst the survivors to provide distraction enough for the army occupying the city. What members of the City Watch remained were a paranoid bunch feeling safer patrolling at night and sleeping during the day. This left of course much of the evening before nightfall open hours for men of the army to distract themselves. Arthur found the first night there that he had a longing for a good Dornish strongwine. And he satisfied that taste at a hefty price from a surviving wine merchant.

 

There was no red wine in the world as dark or as sweet as Dornish strongwine nor as potent—as Arthur felt the following day when he found it difficult to do his duty standing guard atop the city walls. Soon he found himself longing for more than just that one bottle, once he had emptied it-but no. That was one way he knew he could lose his chance at being a part of his nephew’s life for good. He would have to find a way to distract himself from thirsting after more wine.

 

_Seven Hells did I acquire this much of a taste for wine, that I cannot help but long for it even when sober?_

 

At first he tried distracting himself with intensive training to bring himself back to proficiency with his smaller sword and mismatched armor. This however was akin to shaking awake a limb which had gone numb from disuse. And as soon as he was caught up in his abilities he again found himself craving another glass of wine.

 

_No! I mustn’t._

 

He would then returned to his training grounds in an abandoned courtyard to whack more ferociously against a wooden post he’d set up himself. One day he caught a boy staring at him. When he turned the lad ran off, but from his retreating form he saw the lad wore a tattered yellow surcoat with three dogs upon it.

 

_The would-be squire…_

 

Lord Stark had taken the boy in, probably out of the same misguided sympathy that had led him to taking the former pretender under his protection as well. But beyond having the boy fetch things and sharpen weapons, nothing else was being asked of him. Like the army, which now waited to see what Lord Stark was planning with the King, he had time to spare.

 

Arthur came back the next evening to find the boy with a sword of his own—almost comically too big for him to hold properly—thwacking at the post in the dipping red sunlight of twilight. Arthur stopped and watched the boy go at it. He recognized a few moves that he himself had as part of his own training regime.

 

_How long has the pup watched me practice?_

 

The next moment the boy managed to get the sword stuck into the post.

 

“Fucker!” called out the pubescent boy—his voice cracking as he shouted—the scene almost brought a smile to Arthur’s face.

 

The boy tried to pull it out but to no avail. Silently Arthur crossed over and motioned for the boy to step aside. The boy stared at him, seeing at first a desire to run in his eyes, but then apparently the lad decided against it, watching as Arthur took the sword out himself.

 

“I don’t recall you bringing a sword of your own from your own keep,” mentioned Arthur casually as he handed back the sword.

 

“I was sharpening it for some northern knight,” replied the boy.

 

“The North doesn’t have any knights—none of them keep the Seven,” explained Arthur, remembering Ashara telling him that one time.

 

“All the better,” grumbled the boy.

 

Although he wasn’t one anymore, he didn’t like the way which the boy was referring to them, “You have something against knights, boy?”

 

“My brother was a knight, and he used that as an excuse to do whatever he liked,” spat the adolescent venomously.

 

“Who was your brother?” asked Arthur

 

“Ser Gregor Clegane,” answered the boy.

 

Arthur froze at the name—wasn’t that the man that Lannister had sent after the she-wolf? The lanky giant of a man who he’d killed? And this tiny thing—well tiny by comparison—was his brother?

 

“You’ve heard of him?” asked the boy.

 

“Aye, I killed him,” answered Arthur, expecting the boy to run away upon hearing this confession, or to become angry—some kind of reaction other than the grateful look in his eyes which spoke of a newfound respect.

 

“Can you train me?” asked the boy.

 

Before Arthur could answer the boy, the warning bell in the city Sept, which was to toll if ever there were to be another attack, began to ring wildly.

 

Immediately Arthur and the boy ran to the closest watchtower along the wall that surrounded the city and climbed to see that along the Ocean Road far to the south of the city off in the distance there seemed to be something disturbing the dirt, causing a great cloud of dust and dirt to be kicked up. It was hard to tell whether it was an army riding to attack or a battle occurring to the south. It could be either. Quickly the both rushed back to where they were designated to meet in case of attack, by the Sept.

 

As it turned out, when a group of riders including Arthur had been dispatched to investigate they arrived to find a bloody scene of dead Ironborn with the banners which Arthur saw to being triumphant included the damned three oak leaves on a golden field that stirred his ire. Red and Green Apples on golden fields, the black knight on a field of white, and many others, but of course none so prominent as the damned golden rose on green. The army of the Reach had arrived.

 

Lord Tyrell bent the knee to the… King at Lannisport. He pledged his ships and men to him in his conquest. while offering the liberation of Crakehall from the Ironborn, and the defeat of the most recent wave of attacking Ironborn as proof of his newfound loyalty to the rightful… King. The… King accepted his offer of men and ships with some obvious distaste, but nothing the offer of a fine delicious Arbor gold—that made Arthur’s mouth salivate in jealousy—did not quickly cure him of.

 

The following day, Arthur pulled the Clegane boy aside to tell him he would train him. If anything the boy had an eagerness to learn and Arthur had a desperate need for distraction. And besides it could be practice for the day he’d teach his own nephew.


	51. Catelyn IV

******CATELYN**  
  
Winterfell was warmer than she had expected. Brandon of course had told her that it was kept warm from the hot springs waters piped through the walls, but she had never stopped to consider just how much warmer such a design could make a castle. Catelyn of course still needed a fire in her room, even in these late days of spring, but it wasn’t as large a fire as she thought she might need.  
  
After having traveled for the better part of near two months, she was close to her time, so Maester Luwin and the recently hired midwife from the town who was there to assist Maester Luwin as he had never delivered a child since his being sent to Winterfell after the old Lady Stark had died, insisted she spend her remaining weeks lying in the birthing chamber until she and the child within her were ready to emerge from it.  
  
Maester Luwin told her, “Being on your feet at this time would be most unwise, my lady. It’s better for you and the babe to rest.”  
  
Unfortunately she had a very lively babe within her who if she stayed still for too long began to root around within her, causing her to have to use the chamber pot several times a day more than she was used to. One thing she did not worry about was whether this babe would be born healthy or not—he was already eager to be out of her and into the world. He would make a good heir she imagined and be strong enough to withstand any challenge his elder bastard brother would make.  
  
Lyanna still visited her with both her husband’s ward and bastard both—and Catelyn had to admit she found the little ward endearing with his inky dark blue eyes that were wide and curious. He also responded well to the old games she used to play with Edmure when he was younger. She enjoyed these visits more than she tried to show. It was also during these visits that she came to realize that as long as she did not have to hold Jon Snow she would be able to tolerate his presence.  
  
Her new goodbrother also came to visit her, sometimes with Lyanna, but other times with a newly appointed Steward, Vayon Poole. It was during these latter visits that Catelyn became slowly accustomed to the ledgers and household management of Winterfell. Not much was offered for her to do as she suspected Vayon decided most of the more complicated tasks, but she was grateful to them both for giving her something to do while waiting for the future heir to Winterfell to come out.  
  
Her son began his escape from her during the middle of one of Lyanna’s visits with Den and Jon Snow. Throughout the morning she’d felt little waves of pain, but had taken them to be merely her son continuing to root around within her. But when she felt that her shift was wet, she knew from seeing her mother in the early stages of giving birth to Edmure that her son was due to come. Oddly enough when she told Lyanna that she thought the babe was coming the newly sixteen namedays girl had frozen where she was.  
  
“Lyanna, go and get Lyra, please!” urged Catelyn.  
  
“R—right! Of course,” mentioned Lyanna immediately after Catelyn told her to do so. Lyanna in her hurry left her husband’s bastard son on the bed next to Den, who by this point was crawling where he wanted after Catelyn had put him down feeling the first wave of pain her Septa had spoken to her about.  
  
Soon after Lyanna left the pain eased—though she knew it would come again. She took a moment to catch her breath. She looked to see where Den had crawled to and saw him fussing with her husband’s bastard, who was trying to roll over onto his stomach it seemed. This was the closest he had ever been to her. And there he was the babe who threatened her son’s life. Even if he did not pose any danger himself, who’s to say that in a few generations’ turn when the goodwill built up from his fostering here had run dry that his children would not seek the North? For that matter what of past Stark bastards going back to that Old King's legitimized son—Lyanna had said this was a tradition and that there were others out there amongst the North… perhaps lying in wait. Could her son ever be safe from them all? She then looked to her husband’s bastard boy—the Dornish bastard named Snow. And she watched as Den pushed at him, his hands clumsily moving over the younger babe’s face, Jon wailed in annoyance from the contact fussily waving his own chubby little arms in the direction of the clumsy Den. The younger boy almost gave up trying to roll over until he realized that the other babe was helping him, and then he returned to trying.  
  
Soon Jon Snow was on his stomach like Den, but he hardly had the arm strength to keep himself up and so he fell face first into the covers. He didn’t seem to have the neck strength to lift his head up from the covers, and Den pushed at Jon as if worried for him. For a brief instant she thought about it. _ _  
  
 _If he doesn’t lift his head he wouldn’t be able to breathe…___  
  
She and the babes were alone though…but she was in labor. How could she have helped the boy? _ _  
  
 _Babes die all the time. Why not this one this way?_  
  
__ And in the next moment she loathed herself for even considering the thought. What a way to bring a child into the world while wishing death on his brother—bastard though he be. Her son would be cursed—the Seven-who-were-One would curse her son if she did not act now. Her old septa’s voice rang through her ears. _ _  
  
 _It is a crime to sit by and let others die, when help is yours to give.___  
  
He might be the ruin of her family, but she would never be able to give her husband his heir over the bones of his bastard son. Not only would their son be cursed, but so would their marriage. She had to turn the babe. She’d never be able to live with herself if she didn’t. Den now more frantically pushed, trying to get Jon back onto his back, but he wasn’t able to help and little Jon was unable to move himself.  
  
Catelyn then tentatively reached over—fearful that to touch him would be like acknowledging him—his little arms and legs flailing as muted wails escaped his little mouth into the furs of the birthing bed. Then the pain came at her again and all thoughts left her before her hand could move to right the boy—but instead of falling back onto the bed, she leaned forward, grabbing the foot board, her knuckles turning white as she did. And through the pain her son put her through she held onto the board with one hand and reached over and turned his bastard brother with the other. She was greeted with unmuted wails which joined her own screams.  
  
It was not long after this that Lyanna did then return with Lyra, the Dornish wetnurse named Wylla, the old wetnurse and nursery guardian Old Nan, Maester Luwin, and the mid-wife, Etta. Etta was a plump bossy woman who knew her business and helped Catelyn rise and move to the birthing chair—the chair which looked like a torture device with all its straps and its cut-open seat.  
  
“Get those babes out of the room!” barked Etta, and Old Nan complied, picking up Jon, while Lyra picked up Den—both women quickly leaving the room to place the babes back in the nearby nursery. Maester Luwin meanwhile helped the midwife about her business.  
  
“H—how can I be of help?” asked Lyanna nervously.  
  
Etta spoke in two different voices, her bossy one to the frightened girl which Lyanna had become and a soothing one to Catelyn, “Fill that basin with some water and bring over those linens. Now it’s all right Lady Stark, we’re just going to have you sit in this chair right here. That’s it.”  
  
The Maester then began to tie the leather straps around her wrists, but she hardly felt that as the pain was immense, as though her entire body was being ripped open.  
  
“Don’t just stand their gawking child!” scolded Etta.  
  
“The b-blood…” muttered her goodsister and with a splatter the basin of water she had been holding fell from her hands and she swooned to the floor, just as Lyra and Old Nan had returned to the room.  
  
“Is she all right?” asked Catelyn.  
  
“Get her out of here, I don’t want Lady Stark distracted!” snapped Etta, and Lyra tried to wake Lyanna, but to no avail, having to settle for dragging her out of the birthing chamber while Old Nan refilled the basin with water.  
  
Despite the painful pushing prelude to his birth, Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, named in honor of the King, slipped out of her like a trout of her house, but only once his head and shoulders had came through. And when she was finally given him to hold a tender warm feeling overspread her as she held him close to her. She could not remember ever feeling such happiness as to hold her son, her son in her arms. He lazily opened his eyes and she saw her own look back at her, taking her in before closing again. She held him closer to her for he was truly hers, and she his. And nothing could bring her greater happiness than this.  
  
She did not see her goodsister nor anyone else besides the Maester and Lyra for a few days, but when Lyanna did come she did indeed bring Den and Jon Snow—the one to meet his new brother, and the other to meet the boy who would be like a brother to him. Neither boy of course would recall this, but Lyanna seemed to deem it important nonetheless. Catelyn let her think that way as she fussed over how Jon was to be a good brother to Robb and help him as a true brother should.  
  
Jon Snow did not matter anymore. She had Robb, her lord husband's son and heir, a demanding energetic little thing who was particular about when he would take to her bosom, but her darling lovely little boy nonetheless. And in that extended moment of pride and happiness in her own son she thought she felt she could forgive the bastard his existence, like the little shepherdess princess could be gracious towards those who had wronged her at the end of the song. _ _  
  
 _Aye, be all the things your aunt tells you to be Jon Snow. Be a true brother to him, or by the gods both old and new I promise to give you a reckoning well deserving a traitorous bastard…___


	52. Eddard VI

**EDDARD**  
  
Before they left Casterly Rock to set about liberating the remainder of the Westerlands, news of Catelyn’s having given birth to Robb Stark, future heir to Winterfell and the North, reached them by way of a raven. Upon hearing that he was the namesake of the child Robert had sought Ned out to have a drink with him, adding a promise to name one of his own sons after Ned. It was later when the conversation took a less jovial turn that Ned began to wonder if Robert had mayhaps drunk too much ale.  
  
“I don’t think I can keep doing this, Ned,” admitted Robert.  
  
Ned automatically assured his friend, “You’re a fine King, your grace, far better than your predecessor.”  
  
Robert had laughed at this, replying, “And a pile of horse shit can smell better than Aerys too—but no, I wasn’t talking about that.”  
  
“Then what were you talking about?” queried Ned with some confusion.  
  
Robert took a large swig of ale before speaking and refilling his cup with a flagon that had been brought for the purpose. He said, “Before your sister went north, she told me that she would marry me, if I could prove to be loyal to her bed alone, and I promised to be damn celibate for our year apart.”  
  
  
  
Ned had to admire his friend’s willingness to agree to such a plan, despite his well known appetite for women—if Robert could stay true to his word, then Lyanna and he could have a much better foundation to start their marriage upon. And the entire peace and safety of the kingdom would be on better footing than it was at the moment.  
  
“The other night, I came back to my room to find a beautiful woman laying on my bed in naught a thing—naked as the day she were born—and she told me to take her, that her body was mine to do as I pleased…”  
  
“The woman?” questioned Ned, with some curiosity.  
  
“Some Lannister or other—they all look similar to me with their hair of yellow and eyes of green,” Robert answered dismissively.  
  
Ned then asked, “And what did you do?”  
  
“I damn well threw her out! That’s what I bloody well did. But as I did, I couldn’t help but notice that I wanted her… I wanted that woman so badly. All the songs when they speak of love speak of a love which erases all thought of others…a love which is all consuming… I thought I had that for Lyanna… that my love for her would burn off any and all other loves. But it isn’t, Ned… Seven Hells, how am I going to survive this year—or all the years to come?” asked Robert  
  
Ned thought long and hard on Robert’s words before answering him, saying, “What we think does not matter as much as what we do. A true man can chain his desires if he believes that to do so would be the right and noble thing—the honorable thing. The fact that you could fight off your baser thoughts and desires, even when given the most opportune moment to employ them with none-being-the-wiser speaks far more to your good character.”  
  
 _And Lyanna clearly does not deserve you._  
  
“Truly Ned?” asked Robert with a bit of a whimper.  
  
Ned kept his distaste for his sister’s actions to himself and replied, “Aye, every day we’re all offered temptations of what we desire. That we are tempted means that we’re human. That we’re weak, fragile creatures prone to mistakes and follies, but if we struggle against our frailty, striving for something better than our weak-willed desires, then we can call ourselves men.”   
  
“And when has the honorable Ned Stark ever been tested, eh? If there’s any man whom I could count among the resistant, it would be the frigid Bloody Wolf.”  
  
Ned cringed once again at the use of that damnable name he’d been given, but sighed, knowing there was little he could do to escape it now. To Robert’s point, he thought back to when he was a boy of eight, just newly sent to the Eyrie, and the few nights he had been jealous that Robert—like Brandon—would one day inherit the home he had been born in. He had never wanted to be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, he just merely had longed to have the ability to return to Winterfell as his true home once again. They were the weak jealousies of a boy of only eight namedays born a second son—the spare—missing the home and family he had so recently left and knowing that even when he was finished his fostering that there would be no return to Winterfell. Winterfell itself was lost to him for forever. He would forever be simply a guest in its halls evermore, the master of some keep somewhere else in the North, a bannerman sworn to his brother. Over the years he’d comforted himself in the thoughts that he could choose his own destiny—if he truly did want that keep, or he could be a hedgeknight doing great deeds about the land, or a sellsword fighting in Essos if he had the mind of it. He also thought that unlike his brother with his arranged marriage to Catelyn Tully, that he could have a wife of his choosing who not only brought honor to his house, but whom he could love. It had been under this guise Ned had begun the pursuit of Ashara Dayne, until she had refused to marry him. And yet still, despite these advantages to his situation those longings of the boy he had been still remained buried deep down in a place he hoped to forget they continued to live on. As such Ned had always kept them to himself and as the years passed he had hated himself for ever thinking of them when suddenly he found himself exactly where that boy of eight had always dreamed, with the ability to return to Winterfell as more than just a guest in the home of his birth… at the cost of his father’s and Brandon’s lives, and a bloody war Ned was beginning to doubt he’d ever see the end of.  
  
 _Did I bring this war into being, with my idle wishes all those years ago? Is this how the gods chose to answer me?_  
  
“You fine, Ned?” asked Robert with a bit of nudge of his elbow.  
  
Ned shook his head of his thoughts and answered, “Aye… I have had desires and temptations enough in my life…”  
  
“Your bastard’s mother, I presume?” asked Robert pointedly.  
  
Ned looked at Robert with what he imagined was incredulity. His friend finished the gulp of ale he had been drinking at the moment and then spoke. “All of King’s Landing was speaking of it. Like it or not Ned, the Bloody Wolf’s bastard is subject to court gossip. It wasn’t spoken of in front of you or the Tullys—thank the Seven—but it was talked about.”  
  
Ned grimaced and wondered if his goodfather had heard of his son Jon by this point? That would be a subject he would have to deal with carefully at the end of this war.  
  
Ned then continued, “Still, as I was saying, a man strives to be better than their desires. A woman should as well, but a man most of all—for how can he teach his sons to be men if he cannot be one himself?”  
  
“By the Seven, you sound like Jon now… only he managed to say it plainer than you did, if you can believe it,” and they both shared a laugh and the loquacious Jon Arryn speaking plainly.  
  
“And how was that?” asked Ned when he had regained control of himself.  
  
“Sometimes we must do things we would rather not do,” was Robert’s reply.  
  
Ned admitted with a fair grin, “Aye, Jon always did find the better way of saying something…”  
  
“To Jon!” announced Robert.  
  
“To Jon…” added Ned.  
  
Lord Stafford Lannister was confirmed, by suggestion of Ser Jaime, to be Lord Regent of the Westerlands until Lord Tyrion reached his age of majority, leaving the Southern and Eastern portion of the Westerlands in his hands for the moment while they then turned their focus to the North and West of the great city of the West.  
  
In their war to suppress the Westerlands, the Ironborn sent by Balon Greyjoy had taken things too far, at least too far for Robert’s fury to not eventually be provoked.   
  
At the first castle they came to, Feastfires, the seat of House Prester, they did not liberate it so much as discovered what little was remained of it was a more accurate description. It appeared that whatever the Ironborn could not take, they burned, and in the smoldering ruin, Lord Garrison Prester’s cooked body had been hung at the entrance to the castle. He hung by his wrists just ever so slightly off the ground and the stench of burnt flesh permeated the air.  
  
At this sight, Robert had only grumbled something about the Westerlands getting what they deserved for supporting a turncoat like Tywin.  
  
With each holdfast and castle they came to the more their shared outrage grew, and the worse the tortures seemed to have been committed to the Western Lords. Nobles who had not either marched with Lord Tywin or sailed with his brother Gerion, had been slain and left for carrion as warnings to those who defied the Ironborn.  
  
The next town and castle they came to was home to House Kenning of Kayce. Being of Ironborn blood that had settled the lands back in the days of the Hoare dynasty but bent the knee to the Lannisters after Aegon’s conquest, Jaime had warned them that they would likely come to find the strongest support upon the peninsula for the Ironborn rule here. To their surprise they found the heads of the entirety of House Kenning of Kayce, not just Lord Terrence, were upon the walls of a sacked castle, the word traitors painted in their own blood beneath them. Even the small children were there, the babe’s head having since fallen off from its spike.and into the mud beneath it.   
  
At this sight Robert had remained completely silent, while Denys had offered: “Seven Hells, even against their own blood…”  
  
“Likely considered traitors for bending knees to Lannisters,” growled Ser Jaime.  
  
They would have gone to Faircastle then—which rumor had it was where the majority of Ironborn forces in the Westerlands were located as it had been made the capital of the “Gold Coast” as the new Ironborn conquests were being called, but Lord Paxter was busy dealing with what ships remained in the southern waters while the King’s brother, Lord Stannis, had only recently sent word that he’d managed to scrabble enough ships together to make sail. So they continued North to the two remaining castles along the coast: the Crag and Banefort. They sent a raven from Kayce to Lannisport that they would meet the fleet at the Crag.  
  
Some men were sent on ahead to check on the conditions of the Banefort, with the expectation that they would find yet another ruined castle with the lord and his family either dead or taken to be thralls and saltwives.  
  
The Crag was an old half ruined castle, the seat of House Westerling, from what Ser Jaime told them.  
  
“This you should like, the Westerlings claimed to have blood of the First Men, Lord Stark, and used to be Kings when the Westerlands was split north and south before they intermarried with us Lannisters, of course. Then House Hoare came and made them bend the knee, took the northern half our land, and stripped the Westerlings of most their good lands for doing battle against them—that’s how the Reynes came to hold so much power, they were brought up as an insult to House Westerling, as before they had just been a minor house of little relevance. Ever since then they’ve been a house in decline, their gold mines have dried up and they’ve had to sell off what remained of their lands to maintain their crumbling castle, having more pride than power, as my father used to say…” the young Western Knight had said, ending on a somewhat bitter final note—no doubt dwelling on the thoughts of his father.  
  
They found Lord Gawen Westerling similar to how they had found Lord Garrison Prester—hung by the entrance to his castle by his wrists, only this time it seemed his death was caused from having seashells stuffed down his throat. A bloody pile of which had since fallen from his overflowing mouth and laid just beneath his feet. Beyond that it appeared that he had been beaten by someone’s bare fists as the remains of his face were bloody, black, and blue, eyes swollen shut, and it looked like his jaw was broken open.  
  
“This is beyond simple acts of war, this is outright torture!” fumed Robert.  
  
“Why give Lord Westerling such a death?” asked Ned  
  
“The banner of House Westerling is six seashells on a sandy field,” explained Ser Jaime.  
  
It seemed the Ironborn were eager to mock the houses they conquer—though not much of a grand conquest hitting castles left defenseless by a foolhardy and greedy overlord.  
  
“It’s odd though that only Lord Westerling is here. I remember hearing just before I joined the Kingsguard that Lord Westerling had recently had a son… Raynald was his name, I believe. All the other houses we’ve seen have had their sons’ bodies displayed up with their fathers. Seems odd to miss this one.”  
  
“Mayhaps his son has since died?” suggested Denys.  
  
“Most likely, or taken with his mother to be a thrall while she a saltwife,” concluded Ser Jaime with some distaste.  
  
They then began to turn their party to return to the encampment below the castle which had been so ruined the Ironborn hadn’t even bothered to burn leave it worse than they had found it. It was as they did this that Ned heard an odd sound echoing from further inside the castle. He stopped to listen harder while the rest of the party began to move off. He then recognized the sound when they had moved a bit off.  
  
“Are you coming, Ned?” called Robert, when they had noticed his reluctance to follow.  
  
“There’s someone in there,” Ned called out in reply. The party of Denys, Robert, Ser Jaime and Ser Corbray then returned.  
  
“Quiet! Listen,” urged Ned as their approaching horses nearly drowned out the sound to which he had heard.  
  
They listened with him in silence for a moment, the wind billowing about them.  
  
“All I hear is the wind, Ned,” conceded Denys.  
  
“No, I hear something too,” contradicted Ser Corbray.  
  
“I as well,” added Ser Jaime.  
  
“You all must have damned better hearing than I do, cause all I hear is the ruddy wind,” said Robert.  
  
But with the majority of the party having heard _something_ , they disembarked from their horses and entered the castle. They searched through the echoing halls of the near-ruined castle, the sound growing louder the further they entered, eventually becoming distinct enough to be recognized as a babe’s screams. They followed the screams down into the dungeons of the castle, where they found a grating that had been half rusted away with age, large enough for someone to slip through and into the catacombs the castle stood upon. At this point the party lit what torches they could find and journeyed down into the dark depths of the Crag’s catacombs, their swords armed in their other hands, should they be walking into a trap.   
  
It was a long narrow passageway that was condensed with much water and stank of the salt of the sea along with whatever rotted in the puddles and muck which they trudged through. The passageway eventually came to several others, eventually revealing the catacombs to be a verifiable maze. Using small piles of stone they marked the way they came at each turn off, so that they might find their way out when the time came. The screams grew louder and louder the deeper they went until suddenly the screams stopped dead.  
  
In the utter silence, save for the dripping of water from the roof of the catacombs they all shared a concerned look amongst themselves. Had whoever had the babe down here heard their approach and silenced it?  
  
It was Robert who broke the silence, clearing his throat and then saying in a deep booming voice that echoed all through the catacombs: “In the name of Robert Baratheon, the rightful King of Westeros, we ask you to show yourself!”  
  
Yet again nothing but the dripping water could be heard, or the distant scuffle of what Ned prayed was simply a rat. The silence lasted long enough that they had nearly decided to turn back when once again the screams of the babe, seeming to have moved from where they had previously been—moved closer to them—began again. So they continued to follow the screams and it was not long until their torchlight came upon the sight of a woman, who obviously had given birth here in the catacombs not a day since, and had died from the procedure, judging from the amount of blood mixed in the muck and turbid puddles of water. Not too far off from the woman, stood a shivering little boy with brown hair and eyes who protectively held a bloody screaming newborn in his hands. He was covered in much and his clothes were soaked through, but it was clear from what features of the face Ned had seen that this boy was the missing lordling son of Lord Gawen, Raynald Westerling.  
  
“This is Lady Westerling,” confirmed Ser Jaime, who had knelt down to inspect the obviously dead woman.  
  
“Seven help her soul find peace,” said Denys.  
  
“Come here lad, we won’t harm you,” urged Robert in a more commanding tone than was tempting to the little lordling, who continued to stare between all of them, frightened and confused it seemed.  
  
“You’re Raynald, aren’t you?” asked Ser Jaime.  
  
The boy nodded,  
  
Ned added, “And that there is your…”  
  
“My sister. Mama called her Jeyne then she went to sleep…” muttered the boy who seemed no older than four namedays, Ned figured.  
  
The babe was not likely to live, given her place of birth and the lack of a breast to feed on, but with some promises to his sister’s safety, which the boy it seemed had been made to promise by his dying mother, the young boy joined their party. Ned sheathed his sword, handed his torch to Denys, and took the newly born Jeyne Westerling from the lad, who looked ready to drop his sister. She was covered in what looked to be dried blood, and she was awful thin from hunger, but she had a powerful set of lungs—of that Ned was in no doubt. Raynald hovered closely to Ned while he held his sister. Ned decided that for the time being he would take the two into his own care as like at Starfall he doubted any of the other lords to take an interest in doing so the orphaned children. As he did so, he wondered if holding his infant son would feel as precious as this newly born Westerling girl.  
  
They exited the catacombs and returned to the entrance and their horses. At the sight of his father, young Raynald Westerling lost the silent composure he had had, beginning to cry and grabbing onto his father’s dangling feet. Ser Corbray managed to pry him off his “papa” as the boy was apt to scream between his sobs, though he was less than gentle with the little lordling.  
  
Their horses had scurried away from the noise of the scene and needed to be caught before they could mount them, but when they had, Ned handed off Jeyne to Denys while he situated the sniffling and ragged breath Raynald upon his horse and then Denys handed him his sister while Ned mounted his horse behind the small boy. They returned to the encampment and Ned, for the good of both the Westerling children had Theo Wull sent out to see if he could find some smallfolk woman with milk in her breasts that had not been taken by the Ironborn for a saltwife—though he doubted Wull would be able to do so. Still, for the benefit of the children he would make the attempt. Much to his surprise, within an hour, Wull returned with a smallfolk woman named Gwyn and her toddler son of black hair who offered to be nursemaid to the young lordling and his sister if well paid. Both the lordling and his sister ate greedily, obviously starved. Later Ned would try more solid foods for Raynald, to mixed success. It seemed that Lady Westerling had been in the process of weaning him from her breasts, a process that had been set back by the attack of the Ironborn forcing them into the catacombs where all she likely had to offer her son was her breasts.  
  
Had they been a few days later, or they continued to have ridden back to the encampment after inspecting their father’s body, the two would have likely perished in the catacombs of their own castle. As it was they were the only surviving nobles of the Northwestern Westerland Houses. Over the next few days some men were sent back into the catacombs to retrieve the body of Lady Westerling and to bury her next to her husband in the lichfield of the castle, as they waited for the return of their men from Banefort as well as the arrival of the combined Fleet to sail to Fair Island and then on to Pyke, they discussed what to do with the Westerling children.  
  
“I would not suggest sending them to Casterly Rock,” admitted Ser Jaime.  
  
“And why is that?” asked Robert.  
  
Ser Jaime began, “Although my Uncle Stafford commands the Rock, my aunt Genna still resides there, and she would not be the best companion for the sole remaining lordling of the lordless lands.”  
  
A guttural near growl was heard from Robert at the mention of Ser Jaime’s aunt, who had outright flown into a temper and attempted to scold and humiliate him in front of his men for beheading Tywin Lannister. She’d driven Robert into such a rage he promptly gave her the backside of his hand and was told that if she spoke another syllable she’d find her tongue cut out. The woman had foolishly ignored the threat until the king drew his sword at which point she backed down and scampered off to her own chambers as fast as her fat legs could take her. For the remainder of their stay in Casterly Rock she had remained confined to her chambers.  
  
Ser Jaime continued cooly, “My aunt is landless, being married to a Frey, and has two sons of her own. She’d likely find some tragic way for the Lordling to die and raise his sister to be wife to her eldest.”  
  
“Do you truly believe your aunt to be so cold-hearted?” asked Denys with some shock.  
  
“I’d believe anything of that damned woman!” grumbled Robert, while Ser Jaime sighed and nodded his head.  
  
“If not she, then her husband would surely try it,” admitted the lion knight, who then sighed and said, “I’d suggest a neighboring lord, if they were not all dead by either the Ironborn or at the bottom of the Narrow Sea like the Lord of Ashemark.”  
  
“Tywin’s folly has cost the Westerlands an entire generation—mayhaps even two generation’s worth of men,” eagerly added Lord Mace, saying the obvious.  
  
Ned groaned at hearing this, knowing that his wife, who already didn’t speak to him, was like to hate him far worse as he offered what he thought was an honorable solution, “Though I am loathe to turn Winterfell into a nursery for all war orphans, if need be they can be fostered for a time at Winterfell.”  
  
Lord Mace looked at him with complete shock, but for the time being it was agreed upon that this was the best course of action. Ned promised to have the boy squire when he came to the age of twelve namedays with a Western knight of Ser Jaime’s choosing and nothing more was said of the matter. Ned arranged for Theo Wull and a small band of men to escort the children and the wetnurse and her son to Winterfell. He gave Theo a letter to be given to his wife explaining the situation and instructing how much to pay the wetnurse, who would not be needed while Wylla resided at Winterfell. Arthur and his Westerland squire were included more often amongst his retinue to replace Theo.  
  
When their men returned from the Banefort, they told of how the destroyed castle was littered with the dead men of House Banefort—hung by their own cloaks torn to pieces throughout the ruins, their heads hooded. More mockery it seemed as the banner of House Banefort was that of a hooded man.  
  
This stoked Robert’s fury, but did not ignite it. No, it wasn’t until after Lord Paxter and Lord Stannis had arrived and they had taken Fair Castle and Fair Island that that came bursting forth.  
  
Fair Castle was the worst of the fighting in the entire Westerlands campaign, as it was supposed to be the new “capital” for the “Gold Coast” of the new “Iron Kingdom”. And as such it was being ruled over by Rodrik and Maron Greyjoy both of whom were responsible for the vicious attacks on all the coastal Westerlands Houses, and now having run out of enemies to fight and being pushed back from Lannisport, had it seemed turned to fighting one another for control of their region, and so Fair Island was already in the midst of battle when they arrived. The divided forces were much weaker, and Ned at the command of Robert, burned all the Ironborn ships in their harbor to prevent the Ironborn from fleeing. There would be no escape for either Greyjoy son. They had yet to realize the presence of a third army on the island and by the time they had it was too late and their tired forces were easily swept aside and slaughtered in the fury of Robert’s warhammer and the Greatswords Ice and Talon.  
  
Both Maron and Rodrik were killed in the fighting, but no peace could be found from any Ironborn who refused to yield or bend the knee, and so they all were exterminated. But the battle proved to be the easy part of their victory. Upon entering the castle it seemed the two heirs of Lord Balon had collected most of the captured saltwives—nobles and smallfolk alike—and kept them locked in this castle. The difficult part was in convincing the poor women that Rodrik and Maron had actually died and that this wasn’t some kind of test of their loyalty.   
  
One of the women became so infuriated that she charged at Ned with a small knife she had hidden on her person, but before she could do him any bodily damage, a sword with the flat-edge came out of nowhere and knocked the knife from her hand—the blade of the sword then meeting her throat.  
  
“Grab it and your life is through,” said Arthur.  
  
It was not until the heads of both Rodrik and Maron were shown to the women that they were managed to be calmed down from a screaming gnashing throng to a more manageable collection of women. It was here that the young Clegane found his sister, Calena, half beaten and bruised and crying tearfully at seeing her dear little brother once again.  
  
Upon seeing the sight of so many women battered and fearful, Robert’s temper was set aflame, him shouting in their meeting on their plans to take Pyke, “They slaughter the nobles and take their wives, daughters, and smallfolk for thralls and saltwives?! Damn their brazen hides! No wonder there’s refugees fleeing through the bloody Western mountains in spring!”  
  
“They likely mean to repopulate the houses with sons off of their wives and daughters, making men with Ironborn blood in their veins. A complete and utter wiping out of the old population by breeding,” spat Denys in utter disgust.  
  
 _Were the North a more tempting target, this might be Barrowton, Ryshall, or Deepwood Motte…_  
  
“The Ironborn are a menace to our coasts! But they shall be a menace no longer! They and their culture of reaving are at an end in my Kingdom!” blustered Robert with the fury of an autumn storm upon the Narrow Sea. A fury which neither Ned, nor Denys felt or desired to withhold—not after the string of dead lords they’d seen all their travels.   
  
And with such fury drive them they sailed to Pyke. The remainder of the fleet had given a good last stand of a fight before they took Lordsport and burned it to the ground, then set siege to the castle of Pyke itself. The infamous Iron Fleet had been divided into those that had attacked the Southern Westerlands and they later learned were supposed to push into the Reach, the third of the Fleet at Fair Island under Rodrik and Maron’s control, and the remainder standing guard at Pyke. However with the combined force of both Lord Redwyne’s as well as Lord Baratheon’s navy, they were far outnumbered and thus the Ironborn captains of those ships were forgotten and left off the pages of history.   
  
The siege of Pyke itself was a long thing which only came to an end when a weak spot in their outerwalls crumbled and they were allowed to storm the castle and deal with the so-called Iron King. In the thick of battle, Ned found himself with Arthur Dayne by sheer chance—his squire left behind in the encampment. They fought together room to room, searching down any and all potential hiding spots for defenders to hide in. Upon entrance into each tower they and other men challenged its inhabitants to give up and bend the knee—but none did so save for the women, children, thralls, and saltwives--the armed Ironborn men refusing to their own bloody and exhausting detriment.   
  
Slowly their army cleared the castle of Pyke leaving not even Balon Greyjoy who had been defiant until the last moment from what Ned heard Robert say. The only ones left alive to live from such a slaughter were any children who worked for the castle, the unarmed women, the thralls, and saltwives. Any armed man who refused to bend the knee was killed in the thick of the fighting, which were the majority of them. Ned was exhausted by the end of it, his anger from the Westerlands having faded, his arms well-exhausted from swinging Ice, and he was sick of seeing nothing but blood and dead men. But that is what was left on Pyke by the time they were done.


	53. Catelyn V

**CATELYN**  
  
A week or so after the afterglow of holding Robb had begun to fade, Catelyn began to feel an unease settle within her. An unease brought upon by fitful dreams—dreams that she had not known since childhood.  
  
The old dream began much the same way it always did. She and Lysa were children playing on the riverbanks, their dresses laid neatly on the grassy green banks, while they in their smallclothes splashed about in the river. Petyr was never far off, but preferring to watch rather than get his clothes wet as he’d often say before Cat would splash him and force him to join them in the lazy current of the Red Fork. It was a simple scene like many others from her childhood.  
  
Then a servant would call for them, tell them to get dressed and that their father wished to speak with them both in his solar. Catelyn would shimmy into her dress and ask for Petyr with help buttoning up the back, and then Lysa would insist the same help from Petyr while Catelyn rushed off to her father’s solar.  
  
She’d arrive in her father’s solar to find him crying.  
  
“What is it father?” she would always ask.  
  
He would always begin, “Cat… my sweet Cat… your mother…”  
  
“Has my new brother or sister come into the world?” asked Cat eagerly.  
  
He shook his head and took a deep breath, suppressing what tears he had, “No, my child… your mother is dead, and the babe as well…”  
  
“Dead?” she would ask, fear gripping her heart.  
  
“Aye, sweet Cat… you are now the lady of the castle,” her father tearfully admitted.  
  
And each time, like the time it had been, she ran out the doors of her father’s solar, her father’s voice calling her name behind her, but beyond as she ran through the halls his voice would be joined by others, her Septa, servants, her sister. She’d even hear her baby brother wail and whispers and shouts that she could hardly comprehend. The hallways would lengthen beneath her feet, the voices would become disjointed, but always the end goal of what she was running towards would remain the same—the birthing chambers. She would burst into them to find, as she had that day that had been, her mother abed—cold, lifeless, and as still as a statue.  
  
She’d try to shake her mother awake, but nothing would stir her from her eternal slumber. In tears she would turn to run out of the birthing chamber only to find she’d stepped into a Great Hall of sorts, where dead bodies lay with arrows and swords sticking out from their mangled corpses, a feast upon the table, and blood everywhere. Usually at this point she would awake screaming as a child, but with this resurgence a new part was added, she would turn back into the birthing chamber in which her mother lay and see instead of her mother an old woman sitting upon the bed with skin as pale as milk cream, a bloody red necklace of a scar across her throat, and hair as white as a sheet, and a crown of iron upon her head. She stared at her—Tully blue eyes meeting Tully blue eyes and to Catelyn’s horror she knew it was her... and she saw that the woman’s milky white hand was pressed down upon an unseen babe’s back, smothering it into the sheets of the bed, a wicked smile appearing on her face.  
  
That was when she would now awake, screaming in the night, fitful and unable to be calmed by any of the servants. That is why she now loathed to sleep—for when she did she would return to that horrific dream. And Catelyn knew why the dreams had returned… they were a judgment from the Seven for the thoughts she had held. And now a new question dogged her mind, plaguing her waking hours.  
  
 _What kind of mother considers killing an innocent babe?_  
  
The answer of course made her tremble with fear. She was no fit woman to be a mother—that’s what the gods were telling her, of that she was certain. That she had become one was an abomination in their sight and she was being punished for it. For the sake of her own son she refused to have him on her breast—lest she curse him with her own Seven damned curse. It would be better for him this way, she convinced herself. And still the dreams grew more vivid and bloody each night.  
  
She lost track of the days, confining herself to her chambers where all babes would be safe from her. She prayed to the Seven but found little comfort. She ate little—only what she needed to survive—and she did much to keep herself from dreaming. Visitors came and went, but she paid them little heed, and they all eventually left. Until one night when she, in her shift, was in deep prayer in the dark. Kneeling before a small gathering of personal wooden statuettes of the Seven she had been given as a child along with her copy of The Seven-Pointed Star. The darkness of the room was disturbed by the light of two candles that came into the room—but she continued in her prayers—her knees numb from her devotions.  
  
“She’s been like this for nearly a moon, Septon,” said a voice which sounded like her goodsister.  
  
“Dear me, this long? Has she eaten much of anything?” asked a strange, but young voice.  
  
“Only bread and water. To be honest Septon, we’re at our wits end on what to do with her. My nephew needs his mother! Why does she do this?” answered Lyanna.  
  
 _He needs to be protected from me…_  
  
The young Septon’s voice then spoke saying with a strained sense of confidence, “I have seen something like this before in White Harbor… sometimes young mothers shortly after giving birth reject their babes and fall into a deep grief for little reason. Does she say anything?”  
  
Her goodsister spoke, “She speaks little sense to me…to the Father for mercy, the Mother for compassion, and the Crone for wisdom…”  
  
  
“You are a believer in the old gods, are you not, Lady Lyanna?” asked the Septon’s voice with an obvious amusement.  
  
Lyanna scoffed and said, “Aye, and if this is what your gods ask from a mother for the birth of a child, excuse me if I keep from converting.”  
  
The Septon assured her goodsister, “This is demanded by none of my gods. I believe it to be a sickness, but it is not an impossible one to cure… leave me alone with her, my Lady. I cannot promise she will be healed by the time I leave this room, but she will at least be beginning that road.”  
  
“Lady Stark?” asked the young Septon after they had been left alone for some time.  
  
She remained silent.  
  
The young Septon tried again, “Lady Stark, I hear you seek the mercy, compassion, and wisdom from the Seven-who-are-One. What do you think you have done wrong, my child?”  
  
“Plenty,” she croaked in response.  
  
The Septon smiled, and said boldly, “Well that’s a start, Lady Stark. What have you done wrong, that you feel you’ve lost the benediction of the Seven?”  
  
She remained silent.  
  
The Septon took her hands and met her eyes, pulling her away from her devotions, “Go on… tell me, Lady Stark, I swear that I shall not tell a soul. I am not here to judge, but to help you through this darkness and into the light.”  
  
“I cannot speak it… it is a vile vile thing!”  
  
He looked at her with obvious pity, saying, “Try my child. Holding onto such thoughts has only led to this darkness.”  
  
But she could not say it… to say it aloud would be acknowledging it had nearly happened. And so she kept her mouth closed despite what the Septon urged her. She remained silent for the rest of the Septon’s visit and was thankful when he was gone.  
  
The next morning she was interrupted in her devotions by her goodsister who entered her chambers in an angered fury.  
  
“I have had it with this!” shouted Lyanna, pulling a dress from her chest and throwing it at Catelyn.  
  
When Catelyn did not disturb her prayers, Lyanna wrestled her to her feet and shook her until Catelyn could meet Lyanna’s gray eyes.  
  
“You are coming with me, do you understand?” asked Lyanna with a definite growl to her voice.  
  
Lazily Catelyn nodded and was helped into her dress by a shocked Lyra. After a cloak had been brought about her shoulders, Lyanna then firmly grabbed her wrist and drug her out of the Great Keep and into the melting spring snows. They trudged across the courtyard to a simple gate that led into the ancient godswood of Winterfell.  
  
As they walked about the snow covered godswood, the trees thick, but with the buds of new growth upon them, Catelyn could not help but notice how quiet it was in this godswood. The godswood at Riverrun was more of a garden compared to the ancient solemnity in this place. Eventually they came to the only tree in the wood to still have its leaves intact, the weirwood heart tree of Winterfell. Its carved face streaming with red sap tears an imposing and near terrifying effigy. The hot spring pool near the foot of the tree eerily steamed, providing a mist which gave their corner of the godswood a ethereal setting.  
  
“I feel like a stranger in this place,” admitted Catelyn, as she stared into the carved face of the weirwood.  
  
Her goodsister replied, “Hmph. You shouldn’t. You are the mother to the heir of Winterfell. Your descendants will kneel before this tree and pray as previous Starks have. You belong here as much as I do.”  
  
“Why come here?” asked Catelyn.  
  
Her goodsister sighed before saying, “I too was recently troubled as you were… it’s why I thought to bring you that Septon. The old gods gave me my answer and relief, so I thought that yours might do as much. But since he and your gods seem to have given you little absolution, why not turn to your son’s gods and the gods of many Starks yet to come?”  
  
 _She has a point…_  
  
“What do I do?” asked Catelyn  
  
Her goodsister smiled as though she were asking but the easiest thing in the world, saying “Pray.”  
  
Catelyn was still confused. “What prayers are there for me to say?” asked Catelyn  
  
Her goodsister looked confused in response to this but then shook her head and said, “Think on what troubles you, and ask for a way forward.”  
  
A moment of silence passed between them before Catelyn asked, “Did you do that?”  
  
Her goodsister nodded in response.  
  
Catelyn, at Lyanna’s urging, knelt before the heart tree. She felt unaccustomed to the uneven ground beneath her knees instead of the cold stone of her chambers or even a sept. Her goodsister joined her in silent prayer. For the longest time she tried to pray, she thought on the terrible incident itself, the dreams, every wrong she had ever committed in her life, but though she thought through these things and asked for some answer, some kind of light to show her the way through, Catelyn could not help but feel as though she were but praying simply to a tree. And realizing that, she felt she could no longer continue in this manner.  
  
Meaning to get up she laid her hand upon the trunk of the tree and suddenly the snows of spring seemed to fade away, the leaves on the trees grew and shaded the godswood in a mystic darkness in which her goodsister and her prayers vanished. The ethereal darkness was penetrated by a glowing white-gold sunlight in odd spots throughout the moss covered floor of the godswood. One of these spots caught her attention—it was that of a tree not too far from the heart tree where Catelyn could see several children were climbing and playing.  
  
Two had hair of light brown, another had a darker brown hair that seemed glossy in the sunlight, yet another had her own auburn hair and the last a pale white-blond head of hair. Of the children only one of the brown haired children was a girl, the others all were young boys. And as she looked upon the scene she could recognize who three of the children were—one was her Robb… oh did he look so much like Edmure! And judging from how much he looked like Edmure, she could see that he was likely eight namedays old, as were all the other children except for the one brown of hair boy who stood taller than the rest, the beginnings of being a man beginning to show through a growing lankiness in the one boy’s features. The white-blond boy was obviously a grown Den. The two light-brown haired children she had no idea as to their identity. The last boy with the dark brown glossy hair could only be… Jon Snow. He looked even more like his father than he did as a babe. Catelyn knelt there continuing to be transfixed by the scene before her. Seeing the ease in which the children had about one another—a sight which soothed her soul oddly enough. This ease of feeling though was not to last as soon Jon Snow’s eyes met hers—as though he could see here there.  
  
“Over there, by the heart tree!” called out Jon Snow the boy, and in fear Catelyn drew back, her hand lifting from the weirwood tree and suddenly the vision faded into nothing. The spring snows were about her, as well as her goodsister once again. Eager to see once again the children grown, to see what kind of boy her son would be… but as she pressed her hand once again against the weirwood’s trunk nothing came—no other sight.  
  
 _Was it a vision from the old gods, or just the fancies of my mind?_  
  
“Catelyn?” asked her goodsister.  
  
“I… I need to see the babes…” said Catelyn as calmly as she could, though she felt her heart racing in her chest.  
  
Her goodsister smiled at her and they rose and exited the godswood. Upon their exit the horn from the South Gate was blasted.  
  
“That can’t be Ethan Glover, can it?” asked Catelyn.  
  
“No, he’s already married Jonelle and went on to Seaguard with his forces,” admitted Lyanna, and the two of them trudged their way across the courtyard to the South Gate just as it lowered the drawbridge.  
  
Both of them stood to receive the visitors who came flying the banner of House Stark along with a banner of three buckets on a field of blue—the Wulls if she recalled the banner rightly. Catelyn was startled to see that along with the clan man who bore both banners, and who had a long graying beard and gray eyes to match, was a woman who had two small boys upon her horse—one in front of her, and one behind her, and a babe in her arms. Along with these two a small company of men rode in with them.  
  
The children were shivering in this cold, that Catelyn could plainly see, but what Catelyn could not believe was the one boy—who looked no older than four namedays was brown of hair and eye, and looked exactly like the younger brother of the eldest boy from her vision in the godswood. Upon realizing this, Catelyn felt her legs give out beneath her and she soon lost all consciousness.


	54. Denys VI

**DENYS**  
  
The Storm God-made-flesh that is what the Ironborn called Robert behind his back. The comparison from what little Denys could make of Ironborn culture was an apt one, and probably stemmed from Robert having been born in the Stormlands, but in that situation, Denys might have been over thinking the comparison.  
  
 _After all, Robert did just wage a campaign that killed their King…_  
  
Ravens were sent out to each of the Iron Islands, commanding them to come under a banner of peace to bend the knee or to meet the same fate as Balon and Pyke. Attacks by Ironborn to retake the isle with ships from Great Wyk and Saltcliffe were then made but repulsed by Lords Paxter and Stannis. In response to this expeditions led by Ser Jaime and Ned and his fresh supply of Northmen from Seaguard to suppress the islands were made, which they managed to accomplish with some effort.  
  
Little else was heard from the rest of the Iron Islands for a time, and plans were made to take the other islands as well, should no further communication arrive. What Denys knew more than anything was the need for one Ironborn house, any Ironborn house, to accept Robert—but as more time passed it looked as though that would not occur. Denys began to worry that they would soon have to take each and every island like they had Pyke, Great Wyk, and Saltcliffe, which would mean that plenty of men would die before they were through. The Iron Islands would bleed their army dry. It would be a victory, but a Pyhrric one at best.  
  
And then the oddest thing occurred, a response to their initial flock of ravens was returned, from Harlaw. Lord Rodrik Harlaw of Ten Towers was prepared to come in person, as representative of the rest of the Iron Islands, to bend the knee and work to end this “senseless rebellion” as he put it.  
  
He came under the white banner of peace. He appeared to be a rather ordinary looking man, brown of hair, eyes, and beard. He had a slight thin build and appeared to be on the smaller side of what was usually considered a “healthy-sized” Ironborn. He bent the knee almost immediately to Robert, who sat upon the Seastone chair.  
  
Lord Rodrik began, “I come before you, your grace, to not only see peace come to these islands but as an advocate for my sister, Lady Alannys Greyjoy and her children.”  
  
Robert announced boldly, “Balon’s sons are dead.”  
  
Lord Rodrik looked startled at this proclamation but continued nonetheless, having obviously well-prepared himself for this meeting.  
  
“I mean of course my sister’s two youngest children, the young Lord Theon and Lady Asha.”  
  
“Lord Theon! After the atrocities his brothers committed in the Westerlands, do you truly expect me to tolerate sitting another Greyjoy in this blasted seat?” Robert fumed.  
  
“What atrocities, your grace?” asked Lord Rodrik, clearly confused.  
  
Robert stormed, “Against Lord Prester, for hanging him by the wrists to the entrance of his castle and burning him alive while he hung there. Against Lord Westerling, by stuffing seashells down this throat, and breaking his jaw open to fit more in there when not as many fit as they liked. Against Lord Farman for hanging him and his sons from their own ships like sails! Against Lord Banefort hanging him by his cloak—”  
  
At this the hall’s doors burst open and an imposing figure of a woman all dressed in black with a golden kraken pattern decorating her dress. Like Lord Rodrik, she too was brown of hair and eye. She came storming into the hall—on her heels was a small black of hair girl and boy as she shouted, “You lie! My sons would never—!”  
  
“Lanny! I told you to—” began Lord Rodrik  
  
However Robert cut them all off, addressing Lady Greyjoy as he did so, “And yet I have an entire castle full of raped women who said they were forced to watch as their husbands, fathers, uncles, brothers, cousins, nephews, and sons were murdered before their eyes by your sons’ own hands!”  
  
Robert then took a deep breath and continued, “I have prided myself on being a patient and… forgiving man, Lady Greyjoy. I could chose to meet out punishment for punishment—life for life. I could give your children the same mercy your sons gave House Kenning of Kayce.”  
  
At this, Lord Harlaw took interest—as well he should, Denys noted, as the main branch of House Kenning were his sworn bannermen.  
  
“Your sons exterminated House Kenning of Kayce—even down to the babes in their cradles. And they took this “Gold Coast” as they called it, for what? In the end we came upon them fighting amongst themselves over taking the maidenhood of a woman. If all of that is what you call honorable mayhaps you should have a taste of your own stew! Do not tempt me by calling me a liar or House Greyjoy will find itself at an end this day!”  
  
At this, Lady Greyjoy held tighter to her two children, fear plaintively passing across her face.  
  
“It mayhaps be that we have begun on the wrong footing,” offered Lord Rodrik.  
  
Robert roared in agreement, “It bloody well seems that way!”  
  
Lord Rodrik offered terms in which he could bring the rest of the Iron Islands’ houses to heel for: seeing his nephew, Theon, keep lordship over the Iron Islands, with himself as lord regent in his stead until he reached the age of majority. After some arguing and bartering, this was agreed to but only with the following conditions:  
  
The Drowned God was prohibited from being worshiped—anyone caught practicing or preaching his dogma would be tried  & killed.  
  
The Lords of Saltcliffe and Great Wyk, for having persisted in this revolt after the fall of Pyke were to be attained and replaced with houses loyal to the crown, while the lords themselves were to be held captive in Oldtown for the remainder of their days. If the rest of the Iron Islands continued to bend the knee like Rodrik, they would be able to keep their lands and titles—but if they did not they too would be removed.  
  
Lastly was the immediate fostering of both Theon and Asha Greyjoy among lords loyal to the crown. Upon reaching the age of majority, Theon would be allowed to return to his uncle’s care before coming into his lordship at the age of twenty namedays—while his sister upon coming of age was to be married to a loyal lord of the crown as chosen by the crown, befitting her station when the time arose.  
  
With these three articles grudgingly agreed upon by Lord Rodrik—to the shock of Lady Greyjoy—the question of where to send the children was left to the assumption that Ned would take them in, and Ned being on Great Wyk could not speak for himself on the matter.  
  
Lady Greyjoy did not however find these articles of peace agreeable, nearly shouting, “You can’t take my children from me. Balon sent Rodrik and Maron out… but he promised me that he would not take Asha and Theon from me. Please, your grace, let me go with them.”  
  
Robert was unyielding in his response, “Your place is here Lady Greyjoy to assist your brother in bringing the Iron Islands under the rule of reason.”  
  
“No! Please your grace…” she groveled.  
  
Lady Greyjoy was ignored by the King. She then turned to her brother, who had avoided meeting her eyes during the entire affair.  
  
“Rodrik… please… say something! They can’t take them!”  
  
In what was a barely hushed retort, Lord Rodrik angrily asked, “Would you rather we were all killed like your foolhardy husband, Lanny?”  
  
His sister begged, “Please… Rodrik!” Lord Rodrik’s eyes met his sister’s and Denys could see that he was lost to her urgings.  
  
The Harlaw lord sighed and then asked, “Your grace… might not the boy stay for a year? He is just beginning to be weaned from my sister’s breast, and—”  
  
Robert did not let him finish, proclaiming, “A wetnurse has teats enough for a little lordling.”  
  
And so it was agreed that Asha and Theon would be fostered out. Denys ultimately felt sorry for Lady Greyjoy so when they had been dismissed from the King’s presence Denys, he attempted to soothe her concerns by assuring her that all contact would not be lost to her, but his words seemed to have no impact upon the bewailing woman, who held tight to her children--the girl giving him a dark glare, while the boy joined his mother in crying simply because she was crying most likely.  
  
Denys sighed and turned to speaking with Lord Rodrik, who seemed shaken by the events. He seemed reluctant to talk with Denys, until Denys explained he was the Lord Justice, and would wish to discuss the reforms the king had proposed and his belief—knowing the Iron Islands as he did—as to the feasibility of their accomplishment.  
  
“Is it true, all those crimes that my nephews committed?” asked Lord Rodrik in seeming shock.  
  
Denys could tell he was not so much doubting that they had occurred, but simply needed to hear them spoken aloud once more. He gave him half of what he wanted, saying, “I saw the lords myself, and interviewed the women as well. Burnt flesh is not a pleasant smell, nor is a sight of bloody half broken seashells pouring from the dead mouth of a lord while his young son screams for him to wake... none of them are memories to dwell on for long. But there was no exaggeration in what the King said.”  
  
Rodrik closed his eyes, nodded and sighed.  
  
“My goodbrother wanted his sons to help him to bring back the old ways, to revitalize the strength of our Islands—re-establish the Hoare Dynasty as it were. He could not see that the old ways were for their time. So he had his eldest sons be raised on Old Wyk… where I am sad to say they returned not as they had left. My sister was right in saying that her sons would not commit those atrocities… but the men who came back from Old Wyk weren’t her sons… not anymore. They came back saying that they had seen the Drowned God themselves, that he commanded them to do things, and that they would bring more glory to his cause than any before. At the time I thought it simple fantasy… but to hear of what they've done… I cannot even fathom it. I can understand and sympathize with the King’s reasons behind demanding that the worship of the Drowned God come to an end—especially given the fate of House Kenning of Kayce—but I must admit that I do not believe it will be a point ever enforceable. The Andals after all tried to bring the Faith of the Seven here to little success,” admitted Lord Rodrik.  
  
Denys weighed the words which Lord Rodrik had given him before continuing. He contemplated just how long it would take, how much of an investment it would be to root out every bit of Ironborn culture. Shuddering at such a cost he then imagined a compromise--was it ideal? No, but it could work. He began saying, “Truth be told, Lord Rodrik, I do not believe that such an endeavor would be completely possible. I would prefer the honor of the law intact but given the choice between likely futures, I would rather the more extreme elements of its worshipers be the target of the law, rather than those who more quietly observe its customs.”  
  
Rodrik looked at him with some confusion, asking, “You would have me fail to uphold his grace’s law, Lord Justice?”  
  
“I’d have peace in our Seven Kingdoms once again. A lasting peace, by any means I can find,” explained Denys.  
  
“I would as well,” concurred Lord Rodrik after a long moment of silence.  
  
Later that night, Denys was busy composing a letter to send to King’s Landing, telling Hoster of the news here on the Iron Islands when a raven came into the rookery with a note attached. It was addressed to King Balon. Curious as to who could have sent the letter, Denys opened it immediately and paled when he read the news—Ned would not like to hear this…  
  
Bear Island had fallen to Euron Greyjoy, and as such the man reported that reaving along the Northern coast had provided some timber for more ships. He signed the letter with the title of Prince of Bear Island.  
  
It was after Denys had finished reading this letter that another raven came into the rookery with another similar note attached to its leg. He read that immediately as well, only to hear that the Arbor was putting up much resistance and that Victarion was asking for reinforcements to help secure the island. With these letters in hand, Denys went forth to speak with Robert.


	55. Arthur VI

**ARTHUR**  
  
His young would-be squire, Sandor, was an angry boy, far angrier than he had been before reuniting with his missing his sister, Calena. For though the reunion was quite a relief to him, his would-be squire also came to learn that Calena had been raped and now carried one of the two Greyjoy brothers’ bastard children within her as many of the previously captive women did. Sandor fueled his anger over this into his training, which led to very intensive practice sessions. And ever since they were told to prepare for going north to Bear Island—Sandor was eager to at last meet some proper Ironborn in battle as Arthur had left Sandor on the ship when taking Pyke, and on Pyke when taking Great Wyk with Stark. But going to Bear Island they were taking not only the Mormont men but also the replenished Northmen troops rallied by Glover, Reed, and Dustin—who had hardly a chance to battle in the siege of Great Wyk before the white banner had been flown. It was a smaller force and so would need every person capable of swinging a sword in the party, which Arthur was permitting Sandor to do if he proved he was taking his lessons to heart well enough. After being left out of any kind of battling since Fair Island though his would-be squire’s frustration had had some opportunity to build, leading him to well…  
  
“Calm down, you’re getting sloppy,” scolded Arthur as they dueled with practice swords taken from the keep on Great Wyk.  
  
“I don’t fucking care!” snapped Sandor as he thrust his sword.  
  
Parrying his thrust, Arthur clucked, “You should—not caring is going to get you killed.”  
  
Swinging near wildly, Sandor snarled, “I’m gonna kill every last one of those fuckers!”  
  
To prove his point, Arthur doubled the speed of his movements, his precision and fluidity of his movements became harder for his would-be squire to dodge or block until not a minute late did Arthur knock the blame from the boy’s hand and bring his blade to the would-be squire’s gut.  
  
“Yield!” screeched the boy in his adolescent voice.  
  
But Arthur did not stop, instead giving the moment to knock Sandor to the ground with his foot. This would be one lesson Sandor would learn and learn well. Arthur would be sure of it.  
  
“When a warrior gets sloppy, he ends up with a sword through him. Never forget that.”  
  
Arthur then held out his hand for Sandor to take, but the hate-filled adolescent would have no help getting up, so Arthur let him do what he felt he had to. In the meanwhile he took a piece of cloth he’d ripped off the tunic of a Greyjoy soldier he’d slain on Pyke to wipe the sweat from his brow, and tossed it to his squire.  
  
“What’s this for?” asked Sandor.  
  
Arthur expounded, without giving too much away, “It’s going to teach you a lesson in finesse.”  
  
“How can a bloody piece of cloth do that?” grumbled Sandor.  
  
“Tie it round your eyes and see,” said Arthur. He then smiled at the memory of he and his brother Aster being told the same thing when he was about Sandor’s age. Oh how Aster had balked about it, and he… well… he had never questioned anything he thought might bring him one step closer to being the Sword of the Morning. He'd rarely questioned anything at all before now...  
  
  
Sandor’s eyes narrowed. Despite his obstinacy, Arthur knew the boy to be quite intelligent, able to discern things quite quickly when he wanted. This was apparent when Sandor shouted, “Fuck no!”  
  
Arthur rapped the the flat of his blade down against his left shoulder or his would-be squire’s non-sword arm.  
  
“I said tie it round your eyes and see, or would you rather return to Pyke?”  
  
Growling and grumbling the entire time, Sandor did as he was asked, tying the cloth around his eyes.  
  
“So that you can’t see anything,” reprimanded Arthur, noticing Sandor was positioning the edge of the cloth so he could sneak looks to the ground beneath his feet. Arthur moved the cloth further down until his would-be squire’s eyes were in the direct center of it.  
  
“Now I can’t see a ruddy thing…” grumbled Sandor.  
  
Arthur spoke while circling his would-be squire, “That’s the point. Now take your starting position. Good. Sight is tangential to fighting—it surely helps, but a blind man can fight a man-with-his-eyes if trained properly.”  
  
“How the fuck can he do that?” asked Sandor as he moved to keep his front in the direction of wherever he heard Arthur moving.  
  
 _He's catching on without realizing it..._  
  
  
“Why are you moving about?” asked Arthur.  
  
“You’re moving,” barked Sandor  
  
“How do you know that?” asked Arthur.  
  
“I can bloody well hear you—that’s how!” snapped Sandor.  
  
Arthur smirked, saying, “You’re learning quickly.”  
  
“You have to when bloody squids take your sister and your keep,” countered Sandor.  
  
Arthur again gave a slight rapping at his would-be squire’s left arm, hitting it in just the right spot to set off his funny bone and cause the boy to stop and reel at the shooting pain in his arm.  
  
“Fucker!” screeched Sandor.  
  
“You were getting sloppy again,” chided Arthur.  
  
With his sight taken, Sandor would have to put aside all his anger and focus his attention on making up for his missing sense, which would cause him to be more careful and attentive.  
  
Sandor was much bruised and worse for where when their final practice session on Great Wyk was done, but his would-be squire had learned that he could read a man’s movements more from the sounds he makes than the sight.  
  
The journey to Bear Island was long, and frigid—he had thought the Iron Islands rather nippy with the constant brow beating wind always blowing—but this was nothing compared to the freezing cold winds that cut through a wool cloak going further North. Stark seemed to revel in the absolute chill as they sailed along an iceberg filled Bay of Ice round Sea Dragon Point. Stark was looking out over the still calm waters strewn with the glacial white floating mountains in the early hours of the morning.  
  
“How many men do you think Euron Greyjoy has?” asked Arthur casually.  
  
“Enough men to take Bear Cove and keep Maege or one of her daughters captive in Mormont Keep. Jeor and Jorah agree with me—there’s no other way Maege would surrender the island to him,” confided Stark  
  
“How hard is the island to take?”  
  
Stark stated calmly, “Hard enough that King Rodrik Stark only won the island from the Hoares in a wrestling match.”  
  
 _How barbaric…_  
  
Stark oddly enough continued, “Jeor says sailing into the cove would be folly—we’d do better to sail round and make landing by Woodfoot Bay and use the woods as cover to mask our approach upon the keep and cove.”  
  
“Haven’t you been there before?” asked Arthur.  
  
“No, I haven’t. My brother Brandon did,” answered Stark detachedly.  
  
Any potential for further conversation between them ceased as Lord Jeor Mormont asked to speak with Stark, for which he left Arthur without any further word. It was only later that Arthur remembered that like himself, Stark was a second son. Second sons were hardly known what to do with. An existence brought about by a necessity to ensure the safety of the line, but a life spent receiving less than their elder brothers to keep them from turning on their brothers. Arthur at least had had a goal in which to put all his effort into being: becoming the Sword of the Morning and a Kingsguard. What had Eddard Stark wanted to be? What had he wanted to do, before the cup of lordship was passed unto him? No answers came to Arthur, but he was vaguely intrigued to discover more about his nephew’s sire.  
  
They arrived as planned at Bear Island—they were kept from sailing too close to shore as the only port on the island—Bear Cove—would likely be under the occupation of the Ironborn. So they would have to transport the troops by dinghy—which would leave them helpless should any Ironborn come sailing. So it was decided to do this under the cover of darkness. Doing so they managed to bring their entire fighting force onto the island and they began the long march through the woods to Bear Cove and Mormont Keep. The woods of the island were unlike anything Arthur had yet seen—filled with old gnarled oaks, tall pines, flowering thornbushes, moss-covered grey stones, and steep hills with streams. In what little moonlight penetrated the dark forest of the woods, Arthur could tell that Bear Island was a wondrously rugged, wild, and terrifying place—but yet with its own beauty as well. In the night he’d hear the roars and howls of wild animals he could only imagine what they were.   
  
Jeor Mormont noticing this one evening before they were to continue their nighttime approach clucked, “Don’t worry, that shadowcat’s a long way’s off yet.”  
  
Arthur had only ever heard of shadowcats in tales his wetnurse had once told him of the wild North and lands beyond the Wall—which being from Dorne were quite limited, but they were still told in a House with First Men roots like House Dayne. So hearing that the fearsome grey monster who moved like smoke, and was silent until it sighted its kill, the beast which had haunted his childhood’s nightmares for a time, could actually exist…  
  
“Leave our fallen star be, Jeor—you’re frightening him,” chided Stark with what almost appeared to be an amused look about his typically frozen face.  
  
He had been the Sword of the Morning—he could not appear to be frightened by a bunch of backwoods Northmen, especially not in front of his squire—no matter what childish nightmares he used to have from his wetnurse’s stories.  
  
“Hardly, Stark, I’ve killed a giant of a man—an overgrown kitten would be nothing compared to that,” Arthur said with as much confidence as he could muster to quiet the old childish memories that had been long dormant until this moment.  
  
Jorah, who was nearby sitting with other members of Stark’s guard like Glover, Reed, and Dustin, began to laugh, though didn’t continue to do so for very long once Arthur met his eyes.  
  
“No shadowcat has been seen south of the Wall in several centuries,” assured Stark.  
  
“I wouldn’t be so sure about Bear Island, Ned. There’s more here than just us bears. During winters sometimes the Bay o’ Ice lives up to its name and we get a few Wildlings crossing it and giving us a bit of trouble. Now if a few wildlings can do all that—what’s to say a shadowcat, a direwolf, or even a mammoth can’t follow ‘em?”  
  
Stark secretly rolled his eyes—which only Arthur managed to notice—before saying, “Mayhaps you’re right Jeor, and mayhaps Mormonts can truly share skins with bears.”  
  
“No more than Starks can with direwolves,” added Jorah.  
  
They continued their march not long after. As they did so, Arthur noticed Sandor would occasionally stumble or loose his footing over a root in the dark. The boy’s overgrown feet made him slightly clumsy to begin with, but the added problem of the vast network of roots which seemed to plague every trail they blazed was not well fitted for an adolescent squire still in his awkward phase of growth.  
  
“I can’t fucking see anything!” complained the exasperated boy after the seventh time.  
  
To which Arthur gave his would-be squire a knowing look to the excuse, and Sandor bit his tongue on any further complaints.  
  
It took them a good four days to cross the island with their force, but they did so nonetheless, footpaths became rudimentary roads the closer they came to the other more populated side of the island. However to their ultimate surprise they found Bear Cove not occupied at all. In fact there wasn’t any sign of any Ironborn anywhere near the port nor near the earthen palisade of the wood-walled Mormont Keep on the hill overlooking the overgrown village. In fact there wasn’t a sign of a single soul anywhere—it was as though the entire population of the sleepy little hamlet had   
  
The Old Bear was the first to speak, saying, “Something isn’t right, here…”  
  
Suddenly a roar was heard from Mormont Keep—an unearthly roar that seemed to shake the very ground they stood upon—or at the very least startled them. Upon gathering all their wits, Stark agreed with Mormont that whatever had made that sound, it seemed to come from Mormont Keep.  
  
Cautiously they made their way through the sleepy hamlet—which to their shock they barely found any sign of life—some children who had been lolling about hurriedly scurried the nearest house the moment they heard footsteps approaching. In fact as they continued to pass through Bear Cove they noticed that the only inhabitants left seemed to be the children, who were at first frightened into hiding by the sight of the army. By the time they had made it to the foot of the hill that Mormont Keep stood upon, they had all come to realize that there was not a single adult, besides themselves, left in the town.  
  
After climbing the steep hill through a few switchbacks, they reached the massive wooden gate of the earthen palisades, which were oddly enough left slightly ajar. They entered to find that in the yard surrounding the great wooden keep of the Mormont’s was what appeared to be two great large lumbering bears fighting it out, with a girl, who looked barely older than the Greyjoy girl had, attempting to pull them off each other—only succeeding in annoying the two creatures.  
  
“Dacey!” called out Mormont with fear upon seeing the sight.  
  
“Nuncle!” cried the girl, who losing her attention for one moment was knocked off lazily by the large paw of the black bear she’d been gripping. Immediately the instinct to meet the giant beast in battle and to rescue Mormont’s niece overcame Arthur’s shock at seeing the animal and several men along with him charged at both creatures, who seeing the large throng of people took a swipe or two before running around the yard, attempting to climb the palisades in several spots and failing, before charging out the gates and out of the castle.  
  
By this point Jeor had managed to revive Dacey, who groggily asked as he held her tight with joy at her waking, “Where’s Mama? Where’s Alysane?”  
  
Jeor’s smile saddened at this slightly Arthur noticed before he said, “I don’t know my little she-cub. We haven’t checked the keep.”  
  
“No, they were out here!” swore Dacey, putting more strength and force behind her words.  
  
Jeor shook his head and said solemnly, “I don’t see anyone but you out here, Dacey.”  
  
“They’re gone now, but they were fighting and I was trying to get them to stop!” insisted the girl  
  
“Dacey—are you trying to tell me that—” began Jeor  
  
He was interrupted by the ravings of his niece, who quite obviously believed every word she spoke, “The squid came and then turned them all into bears! He said he gave them that blue drink… and the next day there were bears all over! I swear it nuncle!”  
  
“Jorah, take your cousin inside, if you can…” said Jeor quietly, handing off the girl to his son, who eagerly scooped her up and held her tight despite her squirming to be released.  
  
“But nuncle! It’s true, it’s all true!” insisted Dacey over Jorah’s shoulder before they entered the keep.  
  
But Arthur could see that the little girl’s protests were all in vain, not that he blamed Lord Mormont for doubting her—it was too wild a tale to be believed. And that it turned out to be as the slightly younger Alysane was found asleep in the keep, though Maege Mormont, like every other adult on Bear Island, was nowhere to be found.


	56. Lyanna VI

**LYANNA**  
  
There was something odd about Catelyn. Ever since the day that Ned had sent the Westerling children to Winterfell and she had fainted, Lyanna simply knew there was something wrong with her.  
  
She stares at the boy as though she’s seen a ghost…  
  
Lyanna had attempted many ways to coax something out of Catelyn to give her the tiniest hint as to what was going through her goodsister’s mind. But all Lyanna could gather from her was a single question:  
  
“What do the Old Gods want?”  
  
Had something actually happened in the godswood when they’d prayed? Lyanna had hoped herself, but… Had they helped Catelyn? Her answer seemed to be immediately answered with Catelyn noticing the changes in Catelyn’s behaviors. She no longer locked herself up in her chambers anymore, she attended to her duties as Lady of Winterfell, and looking after the babes—she even caught her goodsister quickly adjusting Jon’s blanket once. She had tended to him as the last out of the line of babes, but compared to before, Lyanna felt as though her prayers for Catelyn’s acceptance of Jon had been answered.   
  
There was one odd thing though that came with this change—Lyanna had noticed when playing with young Raynald one afternoon in the melting spring snows. The toddler had been melancholic ever since his arrival, but Lyanna had managed to convince him that playing in the snow—something he did not recall seeing in his life before. Dressed in a warm cloak that one of her brothers had worn at his age, she and Raynald set out to make something in the snow. She tried connecting to the poor boy, drawing in the snow the shape of a seashell—which she vaguely recalled had something to do with House Westerling as Maester Luwin had once tried to teach her about prominent First Men houses—but all that did was make him cry. She quickly dispersed the snow in an attempt to calm him down, and doing so Lyanna’s eye was caught by something moving just out of her direct line of sight. Curious she had turned her head to see her goodsister entering the godswood. She hadn’t time to think on it after seeing it as she returned to trying another method of soothing little Raynald by holding him and humming, a method which proved to be far more effective, but later she would wonder if her goodsister was acclimating to the North.  
  
 _A good thing for the Lady of Winterfell…_  
  
Benjen stopped avoiding her, but like her goodsister was doing in taking charge of the household of the castle, he buried himself in the affairs of being the Stark in Winterfell. One morning she insisted he come for a ride with her and she had to drag him out of the solar to do it, telling Benjen that he’d been couped up for far too long and needed to get some fresh air. It felt good to finally be back upon a horse, and Benjen was certainly enjoying himself as well as they raced all around the edge of the wolfswood and encircled the castle—Ben insisting that they not go too far on their ride, in case he would be needed for something truly pressing.  
  
Lyanna mockingly scolded, “Ben, you’re becoming far too like Ned.”  
  
“And here I thought you loved our brother?” asked Benjen  
  
“I do, but you’re not him, and you shouldn’t try to be.”  
  
It was not long after this that Benjen asked if for old time’s sake she would like to battle like sticks like they used to when they were younger.  
  
“You mean you want me to beat you yet again? And here I thought you had some common sense,” teased Lyanna as she dismounted and let her mare graze amongst the exposed tan grass.  
  
“It’s been over a year since we last met in battle,” he said as he picked up different sticks attempting to find two nearly alike.  
  
“I hope you’ve been spending that time wisely, dear brother. For I’d hate to have to explain to Ned how you got too many bruises,” stated Lyanna, picking up a good stick of her own and swinging it through the air as she had seen her brothers do so all her life.  
  
Benjen had improved since she’d left—vastly improved—and it saddened her to think she had left at all to miss his growth to the point where he held the upper hand in their game of sticks. As they returned to Winterfell, Lyanna had to wipe away a few tears of mixed pride and regret before Benjen would notice. This was her own private regret and it would have to be something she’d have to live with. So much had changed in the time since she’d left, but yet so much was the same…  
  
When they arrived back at Winterfell, an unexpected guest had come for a visit. Catelyn had done her best as Lady of Winterfell to receive the newly minted Jonelle Glover, who was but a year older than Lyanna. In truth, Jonelle was a plain-faced woman, who tended towards the larger sizes—though was not fat by any means, at least not yet at any rate. Her Manderly mother had passed down to her a voracious appetite which she indulged in a bit too much. Being from Castle Cerwyn, which was only a half day’s ride from Winterfell near where the Kingsroad and West Fork crossed, Jonelle had spend much time with Lyanna as the only other girl near her age. Lyanna, while finding Jonelle to be rather good-natured and with a good-heart, felt her to be at times a tad irritating to be around too much, for she often was far too excitable about whatever she took an interest in. What she lacked in looks, she made up for in a very boisterous and forward personality that sometimes bordered on being rude.   
  
Needless to say Catelyn, who’d never known Jonelle in her life before this moment, looked pleased when Lyanna and Benjen had arrived to join them and relieve her of being hostess. Benjen however, who had always been a particular favorite of Jonelle’s to tease throughout their shared childhood—obviously being fond of him—excused himself with the duties of being the Stark in Winterfell. Upon his and her goodsister’s departure, this left Lyanna alone with Jonelle in the great hall. Figuring she had to pay for the morning’s enjoyments someway, she decided to make the best of the situation and opened herself up to being Jonelle’s companion for the afternoon—plotting to leave her with Benjen that evening.  
  
“How have you adjusted to being married?” asked Lyanna with only half-interest in the answer.  
  
Her somewhat disinterest did not seem to register to Jonelle as she leapt into a full song’s worth of detail about her wedding. Though oddly she kept referring to Ethan as “my husband” as though neither of them had ever known Ethan before in their lives—which was hardly true, but Lyanna left that be.  
  
 _Mayhaps she’s just excited because she never thought she’d marry?_  
  
“Oh my husband is so good to me. He was extremely courteous to me all through the feast. And beyond that my husband has a very fine body to be proud of. All I’ll say is that during the bedding ceremony—well, all I can say is I enjoyed the sight I got to see! I miss him, though… is it right to miss a man you barely know? Well I guess I have to miss him since he is my husband, but the thing is, I actually do miss him. And, well… it’s been a little over a month since my wedding night… I was wondering if you had heard anything about how fares the war?”  
  
Lyanna, knowing the pain of being without any information easily shared what she knew, “Last I had heard, Ned and Ethan’s band were sailing for Bear Island.”  
  
Jonelle perked up even more at hearing this and asked “Do you think they’ll come home?”  
  
“I would imagine—it would be silly for them to come all the way to the North only to go south and come north again,” supposed Lyanna  
  
 _Though there isn’t any real harbor on the western shore to land them all, so they might have to…_  
  
“Well… when my husband does, I’ll have some very special news for him!” boasted Jonelle very unsubtlely.  
  
Obliging Jonelle’s hint, Lyanna queried, “And that would be?”  
  
“It’s only been a month and three weeks since my wedding, but… I think I’ve quickened with child!” squealed Jonelle  
  
Hearing that said, thoughts of rooms bathed in blood and screaming infants flittingly passed in front of her eyes, before Lyanna gained control of herself to say, “Congratulations, Jonelle. This is great news indeed.”  
  
That evening Lyanna spoke with Catelyn about seating Jonelle directly across from Benjen, her goodsister raising her eyebrows upon the suggestion.  
  
“Any particular reason, behind that?”  
  
“He’s the Stark in Winterfell—as much as you’re the hostess as Lady of Winterfell, being the Stark in Winterfell, he’s the host and should be just as courteous as we have been,” said Lyanna with a sly smirk.  
  
“I believe you’re quite right about that… Lya,” said Catelyn, catching Lyanna by surprise when she called her by the nickname she’d probably never hear Ned say again. They shared a mutual smile and for the first time in her life Lyanna felt she knew what it was like to have a sister.  
  
Benjen of course would glare at her all through dinner, whenever Jonelle would look away, but if she could no longer beat him with sticks, Lyanna determined that she would have to find other ways of continuing their game.


	57. Hoster II

**HOSTER**  
  
In the time that the Ironborn were dealt with, Hoster had been busy going through potential appointees for the empty position of Lord Treasurer, and waiting to hear from the Citadel as to the new appointment of Grand Maester. Pycelle had been found guilty of a low level treason, to which he cravenly admitted. He had long since been stripped of his chain by the Justice of King’s Landing, Lothar Mallery, and the old man was to be sent to the Wall for however long his near seventy years would keep him living in the far north. Pycelle had become a hollow shell of a man lately, and without his chain he left the Red Keep in the company of the black brothers of the Night’s Watch, stumbling and muttering nonsensical words to himself. His future was in the hands of the Stranger now to take as he pleased, of that Hoster felt sure.  
  
Not a day after Qarlton Chelsted had been appointed Lord Treasurer—receiving his own silver pin of a locked chest—than did he institute a position wide Crownlands coup, appointing any and every lord who was on good terms with him to some subordinate position beneath him. Positions like Keeper of the Keys, King’s Counter, King’s Scales, the Chief Officers of the King’s Mint, Purser, Tax Collector, Toll Collector, Harbor, Wool, Wine, and Custom Sergeant, were all filled with names such as Staunton, Rosby, Gaunt, Pyle, Wendwater, Chyttering, Langward, Rollingford, Hayford, Edgerton, and Harte. Doing so, the lords of the Crownlands effectively had taken over control of the economy—which Hoster considered might not be too horrible a thing, what with it having been fully in the Lannisters’ Westerlands control before. The Crownlands saw the most trade of any part of the Seven Kingdoms—especially foreign trade with the Free Cities—to let them manage affairs which chiefly concerned them primarily, seemed only to make the most sense.  
  
After this, a raven arrived from the Citadel announcing that Maester Gormon—formerly of House Tyrell—had been selected to replace Pycelle. Considering the news Hoster had heard from the Westerlands of Lord Mace’s bending the knee at Lannisport, Hoster had little objection to the appointment, and replied that he would expect to see Maester Gormon arrive as soon as he was able to make the journey from Oldtown.  
  
This left of course only the three vacant positions of the Kingsguard to be dealt with. The King had avoided the subject while in the capital, and Lord Commander Barristan had become engrossed updating the records of past members of the Kingsguard he had served with. This left the decision up to Hoster and he began to wonder if the King would not choose because he felt it a slight to his ability to defend himself.  
  
 _A young warrior never thinks to fear a blade will be far from his hands…_  
  
Then there was the matter of the Tournament of the Hand, which had been delayed. The King wrote from Pyke saying he expected it to go forth as a moon or so after his return. And suddenly it occurred to Hoster to use the tournament as a way to discern which knights might be best suited for the task of serving the King. The King might even make a big show of it and stir the people’s sentiment with a big show of chivalry and gallantry. He recalled what his newest goodson had said to him once:  
  
 _He’s always been eager to be seen well and accepted by others…_  
  
What better way to achieve this end and get him to declare a Kingsguard?  
  
After deciding this, Hoster began to take his usual trip up the Maester’s Tower to the rookery—he looked forward to the day when Gormon would arrive so that those steps would never again have to bother him. But as he left the Tower of the Hand he unexpectedly came into contact with the Queen dowager and her small host.  
  
“Ah, Hoster… I was wondering if you might have the time to discuss a small matter,” said the Queen with slight smile—the first smile that Hoster had seen on her face since… well he could not remember having seen her smile for a long while at the very least. She wore a modest dress of opaque silks with a high collar, and a floating sheer veil atop her head that was now pulled back so that she could speak freely. It pained Hoster to see the scars which Aerys had left her would never truly vanish, which accounted for the collar. She nearly looked the part of a Septa as covered as she was, but certain slitted parts of her dress were cut to reveal richer fabrics beneath—something no Septa would be caught with—and her hair was allowed to be long and flowing down her back freely, in a very simplistic style which seemed almost Northern. Behind her were two ladies in waiting, much younger women who had dressed in a manner to reflect the Queen dowager and seemed most uncomfortable with the high collar.  
  
He replied with the utmost respect and civility, “Very well, your grace. I was on my way to the rookery, mayhaps we might discuss this while we walk?”  
  
“That is perfectly fine with me,” said Rhaella as she surprised him by slipping her arm into his as they walked. She directed him through the courtyard—the long way to the Rookery.  
  
As they passed a dragon fountain, her two ladies in waiting walking a safe distance behind them, she began in a hushed tone, “I’m concerned about my gooddaughter.”  
  
Hoster inquired in as equally a quiet manner, “In what regard? She has her brother as Lord of Intelligence, I imagine she should be quite safe from any further attacks, your grace.”  
  
“You’re still speaking formally, Hoster, there are very few people listening beyond the guards and my ladies in waiting behind us—Varys’ little mice or birds or whatever he had are gone—I promise I won’t tell if you call me Rhaella,” spoke the Queen with an air of good humor that Hoster was truly struck dumb by.  
  
But he quickly recovered, “Then what is the matter that troubles you?”  
  
The Queen seemed to take on a much more somber tone, saying, “I am concerned if my gooddaughter should ever consider marrying again. What would the potential consequences would be? I’ve seen more than a few men entering her chambers at night since the King has gone to deal with those treacherous Ironborn… I worry she might grow attached to one and get the notion in her head to marry one of them.”  
  
“She would be at perfect liberty to do so, being an unmarried widow. But, you know as well as I do, that being a member of the King’s household, she would be required to seek the approval of the King. If she did not, then she would be liable to be disinherited from any lands or titles she may have gained from your son’s death, and they would be passed on to Princess Rhaenys,” answered Hoster with ease.  
  
The Queen paused before answering in an almost prickly manner, “That is how it was in our fathers’ and grandfathers’ day, when dragons ruled the throne. But now a stag sits there, and he has a particular inclination it seems to throw out all the rules and institute new ones. Renaming the small council, creating new seats on the small council, getting rid of the King’s Justice, dismissing Kingsguard, fighting his own Trials by Combat… in this atmosphere of change, it’s hard to know what will go and what will stay… and who can be counted on.”  
  
Hoster felt some sympathy for Rhaella, who now having entered the middle of her life, was to be confronted with a complete overturn of everything her life had been until now. In truth he himself was having trouble adjusting to all the new changes from the largest to the most trivial—he had no opinion of his newly minted silver pin in the shape of a hand, it was that it was—the most distressing to him concerned the seeming changing opinion on bastards to a more Dornish attitude. The King and even his own goodson were actually taking an active vested interest in their own bastards if reports were true. He prayed to the Seven that Cat had a boy… and he would intend to have words with his goodson no matter what. As for the King… he would have to speak against this idea of bringing this Mya Stone to the capital—it would lead to no good, of that he was sure. Rules and customs can bend, but they must not break—of that Hoster would ensure.  
  
And so with hope of reassuring himself as much as the Queen, Hoster answered, “Truly, I doubt the king has even considered the matter, what with half the population of Bear Island missing, an the battle for the Arbor still occurring—I doubt he has any time to consider the more mundane aspects of Kingship.”  
  
 _Nor does he want to…_  
  
“Do you consider marriage mundane, Hoster?” asked the queen dowager curiously.  
  
Hoster gave a slight smirk and said, “Hmph. In the eyes of the law, indeed, but in terms of the relationship between man and wife…”  
  
He stopped there, a brief memory of Minisa’s smiling and calling him to come to bed danced through his mind. He could almost see her there in front of him. Hair of honey brown, eyes of sky blue. Her arms about him, their hands busy at each others’ bodies, slowly becoming more and more frantic with each passing moment. The near inability to breathe from so much kissing…  
  
“Hoster!” called Rhaella, and with that the vision was gone and Hoster was once more with the queen dowager and he was left with an aching longing for Minisa.  
  
“Aye, your grace?” asked Hoster when he recovered himself.  
  
“We have arrived at the foot of the Maester’s Tower. This is where you intended to come, or am I mistaken?” asked the Queen with a slight teasing tone to her voice.  
  
They had indeed come to the outside of the Maester’s Tower, and at the top Hoster could see more than a few ravens had gathered at the top since yesterday, irritatingly crowing for attention to the people down below.  
  
 _By the Seven, I wish Gormon would move himself with a bit more speed!_  
  
“So it seems. Is there anything else to the matter with which you wished to speak with me?” asked Hoster.  
  
“I believe we’ve covered all my concerns for the present, though I do reserve the right to speak with you on it further, Hoster. Enjoy your climb.”  
  
And with that the Queen Dowager departed, her two ladies following behind.


	58. Eddard VII

  
**EDDARD**  
  
He remained for near a moon on Bear Island helping Jeor and Jorah to organize and account for everything. One of the first things that had to be done was the digging of a new well for the town—as it turned out the existing one had been tainted with something which caused his men that had drunk from it to fall into a deep slumber.  
  
Although there were a few warm-hearted reunions to be had from the men who fought with Jeor finding their children, there were also a great number of children who had lost a parent in two completely differing ways to the war. Over half the island had been made into orphans by this war—one way or another, and though Ned held hopes of finding and returning everyone who had been taken, he knew it likely that the chances grew slime with each passing day. And there was no way to follow the Ironborn under Euron, for according to the children they had left only a few days before they had arrived on the island and sailed far out to sea. By the time a moon had nearly come and gone it seemed as though the “Prince of Bear Island” was unlikely to return any time soon—but that didn’t mean he would never do so.  
  
Further news from Pyke brought the news that the Battle for the Arbor had come to a close with Victarion Greyjoy being captured and his forces either dead or fled—mostly the former. With the news that Euron was yet to be found, Robert presumptuously declared the war over and asked for Ned to come to Pyke immediately. Ned was hesitant to agree, but in the end there was nothing else he could say if the enemy had fled. After all he could not afford to keep his forces supplied on the island for much longer—at least with the numbers he had, and when the issue was brought up of his possible return, Robert in a subsequent letter felt quite assured that he could handle Euron Greyjoy. It was with this thought of the possible return of Euron that Ned knew that the island could not defend itself with its population decimated as it was, and would need some forces to protect it.  
  
He would leave Ethan Glover on the island to secure its defenses should another attack occur. He made the most sense since he was from the closest house to the island, and his forces likewise were the closet to the island. Together with Jeor, Ethan would be able to hold of another attack. The rest of his forces, tired of campaign were to take most of the ships and were to either be dropped off near Deepwood Motte, or at the mouth of the Barrow River—whichever was closer to their own homes. It was at a moment like this Ned realized that the Western shore could use some sort of port which it could use to provide a good harbor.  
  
A White Harbor on the western shore… but who would it trade with? Lannisport is decimated and the Ironborn would sooner burn anything I build than trade with it…  
  
And so Ned put aside for the time being the thought and simply contended that the gods did not wish for a Western White Harbor. So he sailed for Pyke with a few Winterfell men as guards, and Arthur Dayne and his “would-be squire” as the Dornishman kept referring to the boy.  
  
"How fares the boy?" asked Ned  
  
Arthur scoffed before saying, "He has something of a mouth and a tempter that I'd wish he'd lose. His skills are half-way decent at best."  
  
After a long pause, Arthur then did ask, "What are your plans, my lord?"  
  
"I look to speak with the King and then to return to the North," answered Ned.  
  
"When you see my nephew..." Arthur but half began, seeming unable to finish his thought.  
  
"You have made plans then?" asked Ned.  
  
Arthur let out a slightly exasperated sigh before saying, "Like it or not, my would-be squire has a keep to manage, some lands to attend to, and a sister to defend. And since he cannot do much of the latter, the task I fear must fall to me for the moment. I now aim to make a warrior of him--if nothing but for the challenge of it."  
  
"And when you've both completed that challenge to your satisfaction, I hope you would both visit Winterfell so that the fruits of your shared labor could be well seen," offered Ned.  
  
Arthur Dayne did not respond, though Ned could clearly see he understood what was meant, and return gave a slight smile of his own.  
  
He did not expect to discover upon arrival that he was to take two additional wards to the three he had already taken in. This was madness—his wife could not forgive him a bastard son, what would she take to raising five wards, four of which were guaranteed not to be agreeable once it was learned which relatives killed the other’s relatives. Ultimately it was this argument which he used when speaking to Denys and Robert about it:  
  
“What good would come of raising the siblings to the men who has killed the parents to two of my wards that I have already taken in?”  
  
“A great deal of good, Ned. Can’t you see how it would heal the wounds between the Iron Islands and the Westerlands to some small degree? From the land arrangements I’ve read with from Stafford Lannister, Raynald Westerling is set to be one of the Westerlands’ most powerful and influential lords, not only will he have the Crag, but he’ll have Castamere and Banefort. He’ll control the entire Northwestern corner of the Westerlands—having more lands than any other lords saving the Lannisters themselves.”  
  
Ned caught the quiet presence of the watchful Ser Jaime, who like him seemed for a moment to share his thoughts.  
  
 _Odd that Casterly Rock is being so generous…_  
  
“Wherever one is fostered the other should be as well—for the good of the realm. It would be a symbol of hope and healing for the future. And both boys are yet young enough that in a few years, it’ll matter not what Greyjoy’s brothers did to Westerling’s father,” continued Denys.  
  
“And while the boys may not care now, I can guarantee you they’ll be made to care by Asha Greyjoy. What then, of your symbol of goodwill relations?” asked Ned doubtingly.  
  
Denys sighed before saying, “If having both sets of children is truly troubling to you, then I can suppose I can take either the girl or both the Westerling lordling and the Greyjoy lordling to be fostered by myself.”  
  
To have Denys raise both boys would indeed solve the issue, but as he considered this option he recalled how protectively the Westerling boy had held onto his sister. She was his only family left to him…  
  
He then saw a man writhing in green flames, screaming in agony… another held back by a chain around his neck, reaching out for a sword just out of reach… a boy dressed in black leaving Winterfell by the north gate, while a young woman dressed in god with a crown upon her head left by the south gate.  
  
 _How can I ask him to give up his family, when I know the sadness it brings? And yet how can I condemn the Greyjoys to just such a fate instead of the Westerlings?_  
  
 _I cannot think of that and do what is best…_  
  
And so Ned sighed, knowing what his choice must be.  
  
“I would not separate Raynald from his sister… take the girl,” conceded Ned.  
  
And with that it was agreed upon that Ned would take Theon to Winterfell to be fostered, while Denys would take Asha and foster her in the Eyrie, which he said he planned to return to after traveling to King’s Landing to meet up with his wife and attend  
  
Robert tried to convince him to come as well to King’s Landing, but Ned had had enough of war, disappearances, and disappointment. He wished to see his sons and wards safe, to say goodbye to Benjen before he’d leave for the Wall, to come to some understanding with his lady wife, to see to the North as his father would have wanted him to. The Starks could not rule by castellan, as Robert would think. As his father had said, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.  
  
“You’ll miss your _goodfather’s_ tournament if you don’t come with us,” chided Robert.  
  
 _A tourney? That is why you wish me to come to the capital, for sport and banners?_  
  
Ned carefully weighed his words before speaking, saying, “I fear that I would offend my goodfather if I were to attend without my wife—and I do not believe she has yet recovered completely from the birth of our son. Besides which, given my recent history with tourneys, your grace, I would be quite satisfied if I ne’er attended one ever again.”  
  
“I’d think you’d want to attend them more often, given what we’ve won from these wars.”  
  
“What have we won?” asked Ned, seeing in his mind’s eye a street of empty homes with a scattering of children amongst the streets.  
  
“By the Seven, Ned! Seven Kingdoms and lasting peace,” responded Robert.  
  
 _Aye we have... but can we keep it?_  
  
When it came time to separate Theon and Asha from each other at the docks, at first young Asha placed herself between him and her brother—eventually resorting to kicking, punching, and even biting him Though she were small enough to cause little harm, it did not stop her from delivering each act with a ferocity which held a sting all its own. It was only when Denys stepped in to help pull her off of him that Ned managed to scoop up a crying Theon.  
  
Denys saw his doubting look, and said in response, “We’re goodbrothers, Ned. The Eyrie is not so far off from Winterfell than any other castle, and there are ravens.”  
  
Ned nodded, said his goodbyes and boarded the ship for Seaguard.


	59. Denys VII

**DENYS**  
  
The return to King’s Landing was done with much pomp and ceremony. Robert made a grand royal precession all the way from the meager ruins of Lannisport, all along the Gold Road to the capital. The smallfolk had come to see the King who had “defeated squids, lions, and false dragons” as was popularly believed. Their procession dawdled for longer and longer as they grew closer to the capital, and all the while Robert adored and lapped up all the attention like a cat which had discovered cream.  
  
The trial of Victarion Greyjoy was apparently of little concern to Robert, and so with Denys presiding over it, it soon became a quickly resolved affair. When it was all over, Robert was quite disappointed to learn that the squid asked for a trial by combat—looking forward to taking the reaver’s head.  
  
“Whom did you name as the crown’s champion?” asked Robert, clearly interested in taking the job himself.  
  
“Ser Barristan, your grace, he practically volunteered for the opportunity.”  
  
In truth, Denys had asked specifically for Ser Barristan to take the role in order to keep Robert from making a habit of volunteering to be his own champion.  
  
He has a dynasty to found, it won’t do anyone any bit of good if he keeps putting his life in danger.   
  
“Ahh… well…. good,” said Robert, the wind clearly taken out of his sails for the moment.  
  
The trial was held the day before the start of the tournament. Many lords from across the Seven Kingdoms had already arrived, attended it with anticipation to see the spectacle offered by a Trial by Combat involving Ser Barristan the Bold as a Champion. Victarian of course was able to oblige them as he was no slouch with his chosen weapon of an axe. The battle was fierce display of prowess from both men. Sword against axe—there came a few tense moments when Victarian had managed to disarm Ser Barristan, but these heart pounding moments came to a swift conclusion when Ser Barristan feigned going in one direction to get Victarion committed to a swing with enough force so that Barristan could quickly dodge in the direction of the sword, scoop it up and come around in back of him and bring his sword to the squid’s neck. The squid had swung with so much force that time that he had gotten his axe stuck in the ground, but with a sword to his neck, pulling it out was made irrelevant. In the next moment Barristan asked if he wished to yield.  
  
“A pox on you and your yields! Kill me or get out of my way,” grumbled the squid, and Ser Barristan obliged by slitting Victarion’s throat and bringing the trial to an end.  
  
But the trial of Victarion Greyjoy was not the most surprising thing that occurred within a short time of their arrival. In the near four moons since their marriage, Lysa had quickened with child. Denys thought on fondly of the first time he had seen her upon returning to the capital. He’d found her in her chambers. She had been listening to a musician play the high harp and smiled hesitatingly, but eagerly nonetheless, when he came into the room.   
  
If he could have known what was to come soon after, he would have treasured that moment of happiness longer than he did. But his new ward would need be introduced to her at some point, and best to start off being forthright.  
  
To his shock, Lysa seemed little troubled by the prospect of fostering Asha Greyjoy, almost looking forward to it as she said, “I am too young to be like a mother to the poor child, but I can be a sister to her, and that I have nearly seventeen years of experience in.”  
  
Unfortunately these sisterly feelings did not last long. He tried to warn her, saying, “The child has a will of her own. On the trip here she refused to eat anything but bread and salt—everything else I got thrown at me.”  
  
“Psha Denys, you have little experience with a woman outside of marriage,” said Lysa with an easy air. Denys was struck by the fact that she had called him by his name.  
  
That wasn’t the only surprise to be had. When Asha was introduced to his wife, she actually was calm… respectful even. The entire trip sailing from Pyke, landing in Lannisport, journeying down the gold road, she had been a willful, stubborn, tempestuous, and somewhat melancholic creature. Not only had she refused any food outside of bread and salt, but she had also refused to speak beyond a small group of words that mostly consisted of swear words he had no idea how she knew, much to Denys’ irritation. But now he listened to the short ragamuffin girl speak with eloquent conviction, well, eloquent for an Ironborn. He had almost considered the conversation safe to leave in his wife’s hands when Lysa at long last made her mistake by mentioning that Asha was in desperate need for a bath.  
  
At news of this, Asha seemed to freeze still and she gave Lysa the same murderous look that she had given him the entire trip to the capital. To say that Lysa made the best of the situation would be overstating her abilities and her tolerance for young unruly girls with a mouth. But truly a slap to the face was a bit much Denys felt, and he asked for a servant to collect the girl while his wife collected herself once again on her padded chair.  
  
“The child is a hellion,” declared Lysa with an aggravated tone.  
  
“I tried to warn you,” added Denys in an exhausted manner.  
  
“But in the end, I’ll make a lady of her,” stated Lysa  
  
Not in the mood to argue with his wife by giving his own thoughts on the likelihood of her success, he simply finished with, “Of course you will.” In response she took his words as support for she smiled at their reception.  
  
As he took a seat near her, he noticed that she now fondled the small bump that had grown in his absence. The sight struck a chord with him as a similar vision of Annalys doing much the same in their small keep in the Vale flitted before his eyes, and he softened towards his wife from seeing the sight once again.  
  
“What would you like to name the child?” he asked her.  
  
“Is not there some Arryn name that comes to your mind?” asked Lysa  
  
“The child will be half Tully as well,” he reminded her. “You should name this one, I’ll name the next one,” he offered while tentatively placing a hand over hers. While they had shared a bed together, this moment Denys would recall was the second most intimate moment they’d had in their brief relationship. Oddly enough, siring a child with her ranked far below with him than the two handholds he had now shared with her.  
  
“Jonnel if it’s a boy, and… Minisa if it’s a girl,” said Lysa with   
  
He smiled and Lysa laid his hand flat against her bump, and though he knew the child was too small for him to feel, he imagined he could feel its heart beating with hers inside of Lysa. For his part, Denys considered that mayhaps through this child they could begin a new future for both of themselves. He would never stop remembering Annalys, Jasper, or Jon—no, he could never do that—but with this child they could mayhaps have a future of their own that was sweeter than the bitter past.  
  
  
And it seemed the Seven would not let him forget that bitter past as not long after his arrival a letter sealed with green wax and the sigil of a broken wheel was delivered to him by the new Grand Maester Gormon, who wore his silver chainlink pin with pride and distinction. Having seen his nephew, Denys could immediately tell that Mace took after his uncle quite easily—with the exception that Gormon had the look of Mace, if he were still relatively thin.   
  
The letter the wisened flower handed to him gave mixed news of his goodfamily. His goodsisters through Annalys were now living with their aunt Anya, their father’s sister, who had unofficially taken over the position of Head of Hous e Waynwood, even if truly the position belonged to his goodsister Lorra. Anya asked, considering his recent marriage, if he would still be taking his goodsisters into his household, which he would have been expected to do being their only living male relative. His second marriage had left many in House Waynwood confused as to their future. But this is one matter in which Denys felt he could spend little to gain a lot. Without a moment’s hesitation, Denys immediately replied to his goodaunt that he would of course be happy to have Ladies Lorra and Elyssa come to the Eyrie, which he planned to journey to with his wife and ward immediately after the tournament.  
  
The Tournament of the Hand was a large affair—many from all cross the continent had come to compete, from Dorne, the Reache, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, the Crownlands, the Narrow Sea, and even the Westerlands had a small cluster of young knights to represent them on the field. Most of the North was absent, due to Ned’s decision to return home, but a small cabal of Ryswells, Dustins, and Boltons had arrived to support their kin and Kingsguard Ser Mark, in his participation in the tourney. The only kingdom truly absent from this astounding display of unity was the Iron Islands, and Denys could not blame them for not sending anyone. It was to be held in a large expansive field just north of the city (and upwind of its stench). A large encampment of tents slowly began to rise as the days drew closer to the tournament.  
  
The tournament would stretch over nearly a fortnight in terms of competitions, rounds, and games, serving as an impromptu festival and celebration for the end of the war. In a way though, it was oddly fitting that since the war had unofficially begun because of a tournament, that it now would end with a tournament seemed only fitting.   
  
There were so many contenders for the tournament, Denys proudly part of them, that three separate brackets were allotted, with the opportunity for three Champions, and three Queens of Love and Beauty to be crowned. His goodfather had divided up the lists so that knights would only compete with one another, lords would only compete with one another, and squires would only compete with one another. Denys thought this an odd choice, but then he was not the host of the affair. Denys would ride for the first time as a Lord, possibly facing the likes of Lord Royce, Lord Uller, and Lord Mallister.  
  
The first three days were spent on the Lords, and so Denys had very little opportunity to spend any time with Lysa, who for appearances sake had somehow managed to squeeze their new ward into a dress and seat her near her, though not immediately next to her. Luckily she had her recently arrived younger brother and her uncle—the Blackfish—to serve as a buffer should anything go awry. On the first day of the archery competition, Denys, after he had been disqualified, had returned to the stands where she and her uncle were seated along with their respective wards.  
  
“Your father just doesn’t know when to quit—first he tries to push a marriage to a Lannister on me, then when I refuse him that he goes and turns Riverrun into a godsdamned nursery by using my damned reputation as a knight as a temptation to get all the little lordlings of the Riverlands fostered and squired alongside your brother. What is he thinking? I’m horrible with children,” grumbled the Blackfish.  
  
“Edmure should have some companion near his age in the castle, I imagine it’s very lonely for him, loosing both his sisters,” commented Lysa, who then saw Denys, and a look of relief overwhelmed her.  
  
“It was bad luck, Denys,” said Lysa with some sympathy.  
  
“Archery was never my strong suit,” he mentioned casually, so as to not let on that it still bothered him he had been dismissed from the archery portion of the competition so early.  
  
“Your form is off for your body,” muttered his gooduncle.  
  
“Excuse me, Ser?” asked Denys, feeling more than a bit slighted by the comment.  
  
“Are you hard of hearing? I said that your form is off for your body. I mean no offense, but it is the truth of it. Who taught you to shoot an arrow? Whoever it was they must have been a short man, for you aim a bow like you’re a good half a foot shorter than you are,” asked the Blackfish.  
  
Surprisingly, Brynden had a point there, as Denys vaguely remembered his first teacher being a short, balding, and tubby man who had insisted upon “proper form” a bit too much.  
  
“And what would be the correct form for my body then?” asked Denys.  
  
“That is something you’ll have to discover for yourself—basic forms can only take a person so far. Everyone is different and needs slight alterations to form because of it. Know your body, and you’ll have a more valuable weapon than all of the Valeryian steel swords ever made.”  
  
It was sound advice that he had never considered before, but he would now most certainly.  
  
“I think, Ser, you underestimate your value as a knight to squire so many lordlings. Your brother has the right using your reputation.”  
  
His gooduncle scoffed before replying, “Reputation is worth only so much as men put value into it, and it is hardly a way to judge a man by. Take my other goodnephew’s reputation. If all the singers at this bloody tournament are to be believed he’s a viscious half-wolf fiend hell-bent on revenge as he tears out the necks of his victims with his own teeth. And yet he returns to his castle offending my brother, and burdening my niece with four wards and a bastard on top of her own son. Does that kind of soft-hearted foolishness sound like a bloodthirsty commander hellbent on vengeance for his wronged family? In short, no it doesn’t, and so few of the singers make mention of how he’s expanding his ‘pack’ as it were. All the same, my reputation as a ‘Blackfish’ comes from me refusing to marry whom my brother chose and because I killed an extra few men alongside Ser Barristan while attempting to kill the last of the black dragons.”  
  
The rest of the lords’ competition over the succeeding days flew by quickly, leaving the final joust to himself versus Lord Jason Mallister. He had been nervous at first, since the “Young Eagle” was the closest to his age—being only a few years his elder—and already had proven his capability against the likes of tourney regular Lord Yohn Royce. While Denys had managed to disarm Lord Jason once, in the end Lord Jason dismounted him, won the battle, and declared his wife his Queen of Love and Beauty.  
  
The following four days spread out the Squires’ competitions, which included more than the traditional three tourney events. His young goodbrother had wished to participate as well—but the Blackfish had laughed at the idea saying he was far too young to be of any good. His ward, Asha, meanwhile complained that Edmure was being a distraction from the tournament—which she watched with some interest—brazenly stating that she could beat Edmure in any field of battle herself.  
  
“It’s not fair that father won’t let me compete—there are some on the field younger than me!” complained Edmure with a pout.  
  
“The only squire I see younger than you is Jaden Flowers, and he’s only a few months younger than you. And he’s only permitted to participate in the archery competition” mentioned Brynden.  
  
“If he can participate, why can’t I?” demanded Edmure.  
  
“Have you seen where your arrows land? It’d be an insult to our house to have you compete now,” countered Brynden.  
  
“I’ve gotten better!” insisted Edmure.  
  
“I think Hoster means to knight a few of the squires to replace several of the knights we’ve lost. Why else let nearly every squire in the whole of the seven kingdoms participate?” hedged the Blackfish purposefully to Denys, obviously trying t ignore Edmure.  
  
“Oh shut your mouth will you. I want to see them compete, not hear you whine like a woman,” groaned Asha.  
  
“So sayth one,” returned Edmure with mock courtesy.  
  
“I’m more of a boy than you’ll ever be,” snapped Asha as she sneered at his velvet clothes in the colors of House Tully.  
  
“No wonder Lord Stark didn’t take you too,” muttered Edmure under his breath.  
  
In an instant, before Denys could react, Asha had jumped Edmure and begun thrashing at him, punching and screaming. Denys was separating the two a moment later along with Brynden. Their punishments being that they were to be returned to the Red Keep each and miss the rest of the squires’ combat.   
  
Of all the numerous battles between squires, the one which stuck out the most to Denys was the battle between the Oakheart boy and his own vassal, Jasper Redfort. Neither were the ultimate winner of the squire’s competition, because both spent far too much time attempting to beat the other for the smallest excuses—the melee had nearly turned deadly with the blunted tourney blades, an arrow just brushed and tore at the sleeve of Oakheart’s doublet, and in the joust—despite having unseated the other the appropriate seven times, they had returned to their starting positions and continued charging at one another until each of their lords grabbed the reigns of their horses and led them away to cool down. A pretty young Stormlands girl on the cusp of maidenhood was crowned the Squire’s Queen of Love and Beauty by a squire Denys had never heard of before.   
  
Lysa would later insist that Asha and Edmure both be given to Dorra, her handmaiden, to assist in her duties for their few days of punishment.   
  
“If they both are so disinclined to be unappreciative of a woman’s contribution to society, let them discover what one truly does,” suggested Lysa slyly, and so it was done. His gooduncle and goodfather seemed to think the punishment suitable for Edmure, for neither said a word to him about it, with both seeming to be absorbed with the final portion of the Tournament, the long participated Competition of Knights, which Brynden prepared to ride in, and Hoster… well, Denys knew not why Hoster was so involved with the final competition.  
  
The final sennight would be devoted to the Knights’ Competition. It was the most widely attended part of the tournament, and full of the display of banners and pageantry one typically associated with tournaments. Archery had its day with Ser Garth Hightower being its victor, and the Grand Melee even featured an eager to participate and winning Robert amongst the throng of competitors. It was the only event in which the King entered himself, the rest of the time he devoted to drinking with much merriment from the royal stand.  
  
The true anticipation came down to the final four days of jousting that everyone anticipated. By this point, Asha and Edmure had earned the right to attend the tournament again, but were only permitted to do so if they behaved themselves. The two seemed to have come to some sort of understanding from their mutual punishment and were eager to set separated from the rest of their party, to the concern of very few, as the tournament truly made them all forget to be watchful of the two children. Of the many knights competing, Denys took note of Lord Uller’s brother, Ser Ulwyk, who in his first two victories against Ser Hosman Norcross and Ser Willis Wode were stunning to say the least, with the man seeming to have found the right spot for each man to thrust his lance and knock his opponent off before his opponent could. Another notable man amongst the lists was Ser Richard Horpe, who fought with Ser Uller in the third round after defeating Ser Eustace Hunter and Ser Justin Massey. Ser Richard Horpe had come quite close to winning the melee, but it was against Ser Ulwyk where Ser Richard found his match and was knocked out of the lists, leaving Ser Uller the champion of his part of the bracket.   
  
Ser Garth Hightower completely dominated any opponent sent against him, proving that his skill with a bow was equally as matched upon a horse with a lance—and so when Ser Garth fought against Ser Ulwyk, it was little surprise to see Ser Garth the overall champion of their half of the tournament.   
  
As for the other two brackets, more intriguing stories came to be told. His gooduncle Ser Brynden managed to beat Ser Aron Santagar easily, but when paired against his old comrade from the Ninepenny War, Ser Barristan, Ser Brynden was beaten and returned to watching the rest of the competition sitting next to Lysa and himself. In a turn of events no one had predicted, Ser Barristan was unseated though by Ser Ryman Frey. Denys however attributed his upset to the fact that Ser Barristan’s horse had been more injured by his gooduncle’s lance than anyone had guessed—a light scratch occurring on his hind leg—and so the creature was unable to respond in the manner in which Ser Barristan was accustomed, thus breaking the unity of knight and horse.   
  
It was not the only upset to be had, the other being Ser Jaime Lannister’s defeat by Ser Jacelyn Bywater—he caught the Kingsguard by surprise by feigning to aim high then at the last moment aiming his lance lower, and getting a good blow to the “white lion’s” armor instead of his shield, and knocking him off his horse. Ser Jacelyn though should not have taken the victory as assuring him he would be one of the four final contenders, as he went against the recently re-enlisted Ser Bonnifer Hasty, who after many years of retirement from tourneys for a private life of devotion, had chosen this tournament specifically to re-enlist. He had been dismissed as too old and soft to be a serious contender (though Ser Barristan and Ser Brynden were both his seniors in age), and so against Ser Peryn Blackmont and Ser Balman Byrch, Ser Bonnifer proved that even though he had been retired from the tourney circuit, he still was a formidable “old” contender. And so in the final battle to determine their quarter of the bracket Ser Bonnifer and Ser Jacelyn rode against each other. Ser Jacelyn obviously was attempting the similar feint that had won him victory against the “White Lion”, but Ser Bonnifer managed in the split second Ser Jacelyn attempted to move his lance, to knock it from his hand and push upon the shield sending the younger man flying from his horse, and ensuring that the final battle of their half of the tournament would be between Ser Ryman and Ser Bonnifer.  
  
To say that Denys favored Ser Bonnifer, who rode like a man with a purpose and conviction, against the Frey was but common sense, and he was glad to be proven right, and so the final joust came down to a match between Ser Garth, the victor of the archery competition, and Ser Bonnifer “the Devout”, as he was being called. In this battle, while Denys would like to have cheered for the underdog, he felt that it would be Ser Garth who would win the day and being the winner of two halves of the competition get to crown a Queen of Love and Beauty. But that was not what occurred. Ser Bonnifer finally managed to unseat Ser Garth after three rounds of neither unseating the other, and he won the competition.  
  
Ser Hasty took the wreath of flowers—a crown of red roses—and rode about the perimeter of the stands until he came to the royal box, where he stopped before the Queen Dowager, holding out on his lance the flowers for her to take. A moment of utter silence befell the entirety of the tournament—a moment this quiet had not occurred at a tournament since Harrenhal. It was ended as the Queen Dowager stood, pulled back her veil—the public gasping at the sight in which the former King had left her, she stood openly for all the crowd to see, and then smiling took the crown of roses from Ser Bonnifer’s lance in acceptance of his gift. Denys thought he caught Lysa crying next to him at the sight, and for a brief moment he looked to her, as if to ask what was wrong. But she smiling through her tears, and whispered,  
  
“It’s just like in the songs…” she murmured contentedly.  
  
The king then rose and announced, “Ser Bonnifer, you have fought bravely and honorably, as every man and lad who’s participated in this fine tournament has done. But for your victory, I have a greater reward than gold. As your sovereign, I would be honored to have you, Ser Garth Hightower, and Ser Richard Horpe as the final members of my Kingsguard.”  
  
The utter silence erupted into a loud roar and applause from the entire stands, but Denys could not help but notice that Ser Bonnifer's blank expression did not convey a knight overjoyed by such news.  
  
After collecting herself, Denys helped Lysa rise and they then made their way to the stairs to exit the stands, but as they did so, Lysa was reminded that she had left something at her seat and urged for Ser Brynden and himself to go on, and that she would easily catch up to them. And so Ser Brynden and himself trode down the stairs of the stands to the ground and awaited for Lysa to catch up.  
  
“When a woman says she’ll catch up, I’ve found it useful to never go too far, less you be accused of not being concerned for their safety,” commented his gooduncle. And how ironic a thing it was to be said at that moment as Lysa was heard to have screamed that next moment followed by the sound of crashing and tumbling. Immediately, Denys and Brynden pushed their way through the exiting people who had now stopped the press in and gawk behind them. When Denys had finally managed to do so he found to his shock and horror that Lysa had fallen down the steps and laid in a crumpled heap , and on top of her was his ward, who looked scared and near the verge of tears. At the top of the steps was his goodbrother, who looked equally shocked. But what frightened Denys the most was the appearance of blood on his wife’s skirts.


End file.
